


The Holy of Holies

by lovetincture



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blasphemy, Case Fic, Coming Out, Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Religion, Religion Kink, Slow Burn, Smut, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-02-16 20:39:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18698743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovetincture/pseuds/lovetincture
Summary: Nothing would get Sherlock to take a case outside London. At least that’s what John thought, until a string of clergy are found murdered in their churches across the state of Illinois. Now he and Sherlock are undercover at a Bible conference in America, trying to track down a serial killer. It’s business as usual, except John wasn’t expecting this case to open old wounds.John struggles with the ghosts of his Catholic upbringing while wrestling with new feelings for Sherlock. And none of it is made any easier by the tiny dorm room they now share, or the way Sherlock keeps looking at him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally finished the Camp Nano project!
> 
> This fic was hard to write and even harder to share because it’s _personal._ Obviously everything we write is personal in some way or another—“all disguises are really self portraits,” after all—but some are more personal than others. This particular fic is my attempt at writing something close to the chest. I don’t say that in the hopes that you’ll give me more leeway with this fic, (you’ll like it or not, as it suits you, and that’s how it should be) but I suppose because writing is one of the ways we connect with one another. So now you know a little bit more about me, or you will very soon. <3
> 
> Content notes: religious and internalized homophobia

He was in a dorm room in Wheaton, Illinois. A dorm room, because Sherlock had leapt at the chance to spend even more time assessing possible suspects. Wheaton College had offered one of their dormitories to conference attendees, and Sherlock assured him it would be the perfect opportunity to witness people with their guard down.

He’d balked when he learned they’d be paying $100 per night for the privilege of being packed in like sardines. “Couldn’t we have stayed at hotel?” John asked, eyeing the beds dubiously. He knew for a fact that the client who had hired them, an American with some connection to the event, had paid all their expenses. There were two twin beds in a room that was comically small for two grown men. The beds themselves were perched on top of bookshelves in a way that did _not_ look safe, to form a kind of makeshift loft bunk.

Sherlock brushed away his gripe with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Pretend you’re still in the army. Just think of all the data we’ll be able to collect here.” Sherlock dropped his bag in the entryway. “The brochure said something about common areas. I’m off to take a look.”

He left his bag in the doorway, so that John had to move it or else be unable to shut the door. “Could’ve at least put your bag _in_ the room,” he muttered to the empty hallway, but he picked up Sherlock’s duffel and set it on one of the beds anyway.

They were here for three nights, so John unpacked, tucking his shirts and trousers into the top drawer of the dresser. He looked out the window at the campus below. They were on the second floor, and the view really was quite impressive. There was a green courtyard below, deserted now save for a few people dotted here and there, probably checking in like them. The air that blew in through the open window was warm and smelled like recently cut grass. If he wasn’t already jetlagged from the flight, it would have made him sleepy.

They shared a bathroom with another room adjacent, and John took a cursory look before shutting the door and latching it shut.

He patted his waistband out of habit, sorely feeling the lack of his gun. “Don’t be stupid,” he told himself. “You’re at a Bible conference.”

“A Bible conference with a serial killer on the loose,” Sherlock said, having returned from his examination of the dorm. He went to his bag and unzipped it, carelessly rooting through silk shirts until he procured John’s Sig. “Catch.” He tossed it to John, who caught it, shaking his head. He really had to teach Sherlock gun safety one of these days.

For now, he just asked, “How—?”

“Mycroft forged some papers,” Sherlock said, brandishing a few sheets neatly folded into thirds in John’s direction. “Although you probably won’t need them. Americans do like their guns.”

John took the papers anyway. A plastic card with a blue border dropped out, and he bent to retrieve it. It read _State of Illinois Concealed Carry License,_ with his picture, name, and a local address. There was even a shockingly good facsimile of his signature, which he squinted at. Despite himself, John was impressed. “Mycroft did this?” He narrowed his eyes as suspicion followed in awe’s wake. “Why?”

Sherlock muttered something about owing him a favor. There was mention of a ferret and the French ambassador’s daughter before it became too technical and John tuned it out. He tucked the concealed carry permit in his wallet and stowed the papers in his own duffel.

He felt more at ease with his gun at his back once more, and if Sherlock noticed, he didn’t comment on it.

“So, are we off on a stake-out?” John asked, suppressing a yawn.

“I thought you might want a nap,” Sherlock said without looking up. “We have several hours before the first session begins.” Sherlock had already made himself at home atop one of the beds, with his laptop and a slew of case files open beside him. He flicked through the papers fast enough that John would have thought he was faking reading, had it been anybody else.

Huh. A nap. He hadn’t expected that. John was used to the whirlwind and constant activity that was life with Sherlock Holmes, and he’d been ready to shove aside his tedious need for boring human things like _sleep_ to go chasing after Sherlock’s next lead. It wasn’t like Sherlock to be so courteous.

Still, he wasn’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth. He clambered onto his own bed with considerably less grace than Sherlock. In his defense, he was a good several inches shorter, but Sherlock didn’t comment, nor did he even look up from his work.

John settled himself onto the borrowed linens that came with the room. The pillow was stiff and smelled of chlorine, but it felt positively heavenly after nine hours on the plane. As a small indulgence, he rested his head on the side of the bed that would allow him to look at Sherlock through slitted, half-closed eyelids. Although Sherlock paid no attention, so in the end, it wasn’t like his small deception mattered. After a few minutes, John gave up all pretense of keeping his eyes to himself and allowed himself to watch openly. The sight of Sherlock tapping away at his laptop keyboard rapid-fire, frowning and occasionally picking up a new page filled John with a warm affection.

He watched for a few more minutes before curling onto his side and closing his eyes. He didn’t think he’d fall asleep, but in the end, the still summer heat and his own exhaustion won out.

* * *

When he awoke, the room was still lit, but just barely. The sunset lit the room in burnt orange hues, casting long, dramatic shadows over everything. John grimaced as he pulled his face away from the pillow, which had become somewhat stuck with crusted-over saliva as he slept.

He sat up, and it took him a moment to get his bearings.

“There’s a drop; don’t fall,” came a familiar voice near the door.

Right. Loft beds. Illinois. Firearm permit.

John swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped neatly to the ground. “You didn’t have to let me sleep for so long,” he said.

Sherlock shrugged. “Looked like you could use the rest. I didn’t need you for anything.” He was dressed in a new suit, not the one he’d flown in. He looked wonderful. John rubbed his hand over his face. More to the point, he looked ready to go.

John stumbled to the bathroom to splash water on his face and brush the sour taste out of his mouth. In another five minutes, he looked passable and ready to go too—a skill courtesy of Her Majesty’s army, that hadn’t been blunted much by time. They walked the five blocks to the arena where the first session of the conference was being held, and John felt unusually anxious for no reason he could name. He was jittery on his feet, and he kept touching his hand to his Sig, as though reassuring himself it was still there.

Sherlock shot him a look the next time he did it. “John.”

John was pretty sure those eyes could kill a man. He didn’t say anything; he certainly didn’t say _sorry,_ but he made an effort to settle and get a hold of himself. He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders.

It was just a conference, for God’s sake. Just some bloke giving a speech, probably boring at best. He still couldn’t help but fidget, though.

As predicted, the opening address was boring, which was a relief. He could do boring. A speaker whose name sounded vaguely familiar was thanking them all for coming. John tuned most of the speech out, choosing instead to spend his time squinting at the man, trying to place him. He had one of those faces, the ones you swore you’d seen somewhere before. His accent was distinctly American, so probably not someone John had ever bumped into on the street.

“Books,” Sherlock murmured next to him, without turning his head.

“Sorry?” John whispered, trying to keep his voice down. He needn’t have bothered. The sound system was loud, cranked up high for the geriatric set, most likely. That, or someone just thought the extra volume lended gravitas, as though the voice of God himself were booming through the cutting edge speakers.

“He writes books, self-help with a Christian bent. Catering to the lowest common denominator—depressed housewives looking for advice that makes them feel good without having to actually make substantive changes, men going through a midlife crisis hoping to self-actualize. In a word: drivel.”

“Huh.” Now that Sherlock said it, John _could_ place the man’s face. That was Robert Gold. “Yeah, I recognize his face from the posters in the bookshop.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. While John was doing his best to at least _look_ like he was paying attention, Sherlock was all but craning his head looking every which way but at the speaker.

“That’s not very stealthy, you know,” John said, and of course he got no reply. He rolled his eyes and resolved to look inconspicuous enough for the both of them. He leaned back in his chair and kept his head at least pointed in the direction of the podium, but let his eyes wander. The auditorium was particularly well-appointed. The A/V system was state of the art, and the entire space looked as though it had been remodeled recently. Even the worship service at the start of the evening’s festivities could have been something out of a rock concert, light show and all.

Weren’t these Christian types supposed to feed the poor, care for the widow and the orphan and all that? Seemed like an awful lot of their money was going toward making their meeting space lush and cushy. John shook his head in a futile attempt to physically shake the thoughts free. That wasn’t very charitable of him. How this lot spent their money was none of his business.

Still, it rankled and left a bad taste in his mouth.

At last, tonight’s seminar seemed poised to come to an end. They were asked to bow their heads in prayer, and John did, more out of familiarity than anything approaching true reverence.

Robert Gold’s voice boomed, “Father God, thank you for allowing us to gather here today to celebrate your life and your Word. Draw us closer to you as we seek your presence—”

John tuned it out.

The prayer ran long. Long enough that John found himself shifting from foot to foot, beginning to feel foolish for keeping his eyes squinted shut tight like a child at mass. Another few minutes trickled by, and he opened his eyes with a small sigh. He looked around the auditorium with curiosity. Save for the prayer crackling through the speakers, the room was silent and still. Everyone’s heads were bowed but his and Sherlock’s.

The woman next to John had her chin tucked into her chest, and John saw her lips moving in silent entreaties to a God she surely thought was listening. He looked away, feeling oddly ashamed, as though he’d caught her undressing.

He glanced to his left, where Sherlock had no such qualms. His head was swiveling around so quickly it was almost comical, and John had to bite his lip to keep a snort of laughter from escaping. He hadn’t been in a church in decades, but laughing during corporate prayer was probably still not on.

Sherlock’s show of impropriety lifted John’s spirits amid the show of devotion around him that left him feeling like an outsider. Sherlock, of course, found nothing amusing about it. John could see his eyes moving, taking in details quick as any supercomputer, making connections and wild leaps of deduction that John would never be able to follow. He idly wondered what it was like in Sherlock’s head.

“In Jesus’ name we pray, and the crowd said—”

“Amen!” the audience boomed enthusiastically.

And that was that. Sherlock was off like a shot, making his way through the hundreds of people milling toward the exit with a few well-placed jabs of his bony elbows. He insinuated his way through the crowd, and John followed doggedly in his wake, muttering apologies to the people they jostled along the way. That was just the way it always was, wasn’t it? Sherlock did the most outlandish things seemingly without thought or consequence, and John kept up rather than be left behind.

Sherlock abruptly stopped when they were past the double doors and asked John to hang back by way of a firm grip on his wrist. “A moment, please.”

John nodded. He crossed his arms and leaned his head against the stucco wall behind him. He could wait. After all, this was a vacation—kind of. He waited while Sherlock watched everyone leave the building, cataloging faces, name tags, cat fur on trousers? Probably. God only knew what he saw.

The night air smelled like ozone, and the grass of the manicured lawn shone dimly. A rain shower had come and gone while they were inside. John tipped his head back toward the sky and rested his eyes while he waited for Sherlock to finish up. The spot on his wrist where Sherlock’s fingers had curled around it burned warm as a brand.

He rubbed his thumb absently over the spot, thinking of nothing and savoring the sensation.


	2. Chapter 2

The vertebrae in his back crackled and popped as John unfolded from his spot against the wall. His spine sounded like a Christmas cracker. His neck wasn’t faring much better, but he turned it this way and that, trying to work the kinks out. The kip earlier might have eased his tiredness, but it had done little to soothe his aching body. He was getting too old to sit through flights like that, and he found reason to be thankful that Sherlock’s work didn’t take them far from London except on the rarest occasions.

“So, did you find anything useful?” John asked as they walked, cutting straight through the wet grass of the courtyard.

“Always,” Sherlock replied without slowing.

“Well?” He prompted.

John had never known Sherlock to miss an opportunity to show off his genius, and true to form, he didn’t start now. “The women from 6A and 6B knew the most recent victim. As luck would have it, they’re staying in our dormitory. The man from 12E was the deceased’s son, a recovering alcoholic who’s relapsed since his father’s death.”

“The man right in front of us had a gun,” John supplied.

Sherlock scoffed, and John rolled his eyes. It had been a long time since he’d taken anything Sherlock said personally.

“John,  _ you _ have a gun. A quarter of the people in that room had guns. It’s America. People love their firearms.”

“Point taken.” John yawned and stretched, trying to draw the last of the ache from his bones. “I’ll just leave the thinking to you while I go back to bed, won’t I?”

He was mostly kidding, but Sherlock stopped so abruptly that John nearly collided with his back. “Jesus. Warn a fellow, yeah?”

“John,” Sherlock said, with a sudden seriousness that took caught him off-guard. “You know I… value you, yes? You know that you’re not superfluous to my work.”

John swallowed for want of anything else to do. “Sure,” he said flippantly, but the answer did nothing to assuage whatever strange mood had overtaken Sherlock.

He peered down into John’s face, eyes roaming, cataloging, searching. Something about the intense scrutiny made John’s throat go tight and dry. He was used to seeing Sherlock like this on a case. He was most decidedly not used to Sherlock turning all the considerable horsepower of his brain on John himself.

John cleared his throat. He tried again. “Yeah,” he said. “’Course I do.”

And then, because some lingering strangeness had settled around the two of them like a cloak. Because it felt  _ safe _ in this dark field thousands of miles from home, in a way it usually didn’t, he clasped the back of Sherlock’s neck, just briefly.

It could have been a friendly gesture, a off-handed touch between mates, but John let his hand linger for just a moment too long. Sherlock’s curls were intoxicatingly soft beneath his hand, and he couldn’t resist edging his thumb out to pet them, just a little. Sherlock shuddered, and John bit down on his lip to stifle a moan that had come out of nowhere. He cleared his throat again and took his hand away, feeling momentarily dazed.

Sherlock looked much the same as he felt. He blinked in rapid succession, looking at John as though he were something he hadn’t seen before. Just for a moment, he looked as though he might say something earth-shattering, and John waited filled with something that might have been anticipation and might have been fear.

In the end, Sherlock shook it off instead. His voice sounded just the same as it always did, gravel wrapped in silk, when he said, “Right, well. Good.” He tucked his hands into his coat pockets and set off back to their dorm. John nearly had to jog to keep up.

When they arrived at the entrance, Sherlock pulled up short and tossed him the card key to their room. John gave him a questioning look. “Not planning on coming inside, then?” The answer was obviously no _ ,  _ but John asked anyway.

“I’m going to follow 12E back to his hotel room. You find 6A and 6B and learn what you can.”

John sighed. “Remember the part where I was planning on sleeping tonight?”

“You won’t be able to sleep anyway. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Sherlock turned and took off in a decisive direction, walking as though he knew this unfamiliar street as well as the ones back home. He probably did. Leave it up to Sherlock to learn the layout of every block within a five mile radius of the conference center.

John shook his head and went inside, studiously avoiding all thoughts of that touch between them in the dark. He felt the sudden lack of Sherlock’s presence keenly, and he didn’t know if he was disappointed or relieved by this turn of events. He didn’t know if he wanted to find out how the night would have ended.

_ It would have ended it like always does. Get a grip, Watson. You’re a grown man, and touching his  _ hair _ is driving you up the wall. Ridiculous. _

He latched onto irritation instead. How like Sherlock to insist that he spy on their neighbors right this instant, after the world’s longest flight, followed by the world’s longest keynote speech. He sighed and gave it up after no more than a minute. He wasn’t irritated, not really. The truth was, Sherlock was right. Sherlock was  _ always _ right, and okay, that was actually a little bit irritating. But in this case, it was true—John felt his body thrumming with chaotic, unspent energy, and sleep seemed like an impossibility.

He swiped himself into the building and went to find 6A and 6B.

* * *

6A and 6B turned out to be named Joanne and Kerry. And he was in luck, he found them in the common room, where some program he didn’t recognize was on the telly. That saved him from his first (horrible) plan, which had been to knock on doors pretending to have lost his wallet until he found the women Sherlock had pointed out.

The older one seemed roughly John’s age, with the other perhaps a decade younger. They seemed to know each other well, if their body language was anything to go on. They were sitting splayed out on the threadbare sofa, knees touching and hands strewn haphazardly, resting against a thigh or across the back of a shoulder. It was all very friendly and cozy, so that John felt like he was intruding as soon as he walked in.

He hesitated in the doorway, and the younger woman noticed him first, fixing him with a curious glance. God bless the television—whatever program was on was more interesting to the woman than his sudden appearance, because her eyes slid off his face like water running down a rock. Someone was shot on TV, and she and her seatmate both gasped.

“Come to watch CSI with us?” the older one asked. She had a kind face and a tumble of red hair, and John liked her immediately.

“You caught me,” John lied. “I love CSI.”

The woman nodded sagely. “Scoot over, Kerry.”

The younger one, Kerry apparently, grumbled good-naturedly but did as she was asked, and John settled into the empty space on the sofa to watch the rest of the show.

Upon getting a better look, he found the program wasn’t totally unfamiliar to him. He’d seen American crime shows now and again, and he’d probably even caught a few episodes of this one immediately after he was invalided home from Afghanistan, in those dark months before he’d met Sherlock. But that had been years ago, and he was surprised to find that the lead actors—a grey-bearded man and a pretty brunette with a gap between her teeth—looked just the same.

“This is an old show, innit?”

“Yup,” Kerry replied, distracted. “I know it’s hokey, but it’s me ‘n’ Joanne’s weekly routine. Probably should’ve skipped it for conference, but, well. No one’s around to mind.”

John wanted to ask more questions. He was here on a mission, supposed to gather information. But neither woman seemed inclined to talk, wholly engrossed in the show before them. John studied Kerry’s profile, lit by the blue glow of the screen. She was very pretty, with a fall of long brown hair that she kept absently tucking behind her ears. She was exactly the kind of woman he’d have dated back in London, but he was here to do a job, and John found that his interest in her started and ended there.

John turned his eyes back to CSI and kept them there until the credits rolled.

Kerry stretched out her arms and got up from the couch. “I’m gonna get some popcorn.” She turned toward John. “Want some?”

He was about to demur when his stomach rumbled loud enough to startle a laugh from Kerry and a small smile from her more taciturn companion.

“Yeah, two bags of popcorn, I think,” Kerry said, answering her own question. “Back in a jiff.” She trotted down the hallway, leaving John alone in the quiet lounge with Joanne. The TV played ads quietly in the background, and John let his eyes rest on the glow without really taking it in.

“Joanne, was it?” The answering nod was encouraging. John propped his head up on a fist, elbow resting on the side of the sofa, and tried to come off friendly and curious instead of like he was interrogating her—which he was. Really, it was no different than flirting or fishing for a number. “Did you fly in just for the conference?”

Sherlock had already told him that the pair of them were local, but they didn’t know that.

“Ah, no,” Joanne said. “We’re actually from Wheaton, not so far from here.”

“Why stay in the dorms if you live nearby?” John asked. He gestured at the room, which included a serviceable but very small communal kitchen and a carpet covered in a patchwork of dubious stains. “Not that I’m complaining, but it isn’t exactly the Four Seasons, yeah?”

“Oh, you know how it is. Traffic can be so terrible during the week. Kerry and I decided it would be easier to stay.”

As if on cue, Kerry came trotting back in with steaming bags of microwaved popcorn in each hand. She tossed one to John, who managed to catch it without burning himself.

“Ta,” he said. He really was hungry.

“What about you?” Joanne asked, shifting on the couch to orient herself toward John, so they could talk to one another and not the TV. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here at all. What brings you all the way to Wheaton?” Her accent was slow and drawling in a way that reminded John of warm honey.

“My friend and I came for the conference,” John said. That wasn’t technically a lie. “We heard it was one of the best.” Okay,  _ that _ was.

“One of the best? It  _ is _ the best,” Kerry chimed in, bouncing a bit as she fell into the middle seat on the sofa, reclaiming her rightful spot.

“You’ve been before, then?”

“We come every year,” Kerry said. “Although we were afraid they’d cancel this year, after—” She bit her lip and trailed off, yanking open her bag of popcorn and popping a handful in her mouth instead.

There we go. John pushed, just a little. “After…? Did something happen?”

“Don’t you read the papers?” Kerry demanded. She was beginning to sound upset.

Joanne soothed her with a small touch on the shoulder. “Sugar, I doubt they have the same papers we do, in…?”

“London,” John supplied.

“Aha. I’m sure they don’t get small town news in London,” Joanne finished kindly.

“We don’t,” John said. “But it’s okay, we don’t have to talk about it. I’m really sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

“No, no it’s fine,” Joanne sighed, rubbing soothing circles into Kerry’s back. “There was a murder a few weeks back. Our pastor was killed, found dead in the church atop the altar. The police think it’s connected to some other murders in the area, all local ministers. It’s all been so awful.”

“Jesus,” John said. “I’m so sorry.” He didn’t have to feign horror at the news. He’d known about the murder, but he hadn’t known the details. Although he hadn’t considered himself religious for years, there was still something that rankled about the desecration of a church. Something low in his gut recoiled at the thought of someone targeting clergy.

Kerry had gone quiet between them. It seemed uncharacteristic, from what little John had gotten to know of her. Another episode of CSI had started while they were talking, and they fell quiet and let it play. John was even less interested in this episode than the last one and spent the time thinking through what he’d learned and what he’d tell Sherlock.

He wasn’t hungry anymore, but he tore open his bag of popcorn and ate it anyway. Letting it go to waste seemed rude.

The second murder of the episode took place a few minutes in, and John could feel Kerry flinch beside him as the actor screamed and blood started to pour. She got up abruptly.

“Sorry, I gotta go,” she said. She stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you, uh,”

“John.” He took her offered handshake. She had a firm grip, but it trembled.

“Nice to meet you, John. I hope you enjoy the conference.”

She fled the room, door banging shut behind her, and John froze halfway off the couch, unsure whether he should go after her. She was basically a stranger, but she had seemed so out of sorts.

A light touch on his arm stopped him, and Joanne shook her head slightly. “She’ll be okay. She just needs time.”

John set down his bag of popcorn and wiped the grease from his hands on the front of his jeans. “Was she, ah, close with your pastor? The one who died? She seems like she’s taking it hard.”

“Very,” Joanne sighed. “He was like a father to her. Kerry… she’s had a hard life.”

“I’m so sorry,” John said again. He didn’t know what else to say. He’d been around a lot of death in his time, but talking to the loved ones left behind had never been his strong suit. “I’ll pray for her,” he tried. The words felt false and uncomfortable in his mouth, but it seemed to be the right thing to say all the same.

“Thank you,” Joanne said. A small smile lit her face. “It is what it is, but a little prayer never goes amiss.”

They finished the rest of the episode in silence, and then Joanne bid him a good night as well. He was left alone in the empty rec room, the only light coming from the TV flickering in candy-coated hues. He glanced at the garish green light of the stove’s digital display. 1:30 a.m., but his body insisted it was half seven in the morning. He’d regret the late night tomorrow, but at least tiredness had come at last. He dragged himself to his and Sherlock’s shared room and didn’t bother to turn on the light.

He hooked his fingers under the hem of his shirt, ready to strip down to his pants, then hesitated. Sherlock wasn’t here, but he’d likely be back before John woke in the morning. The thought of Sherlock walking in on him undressed gave him pause, filled him with a nervous anticipation, but only for a moment.

He shook his head at his own foolishness. He’d been in the army, for Christ’s sake, and Sherlock’s idea of  _ privacy  _ would have been at home in a two year old. Since when had he turned into a shrinking violet? He pulled off his shirt and trousers and climbed up to bed.

He was asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

John expected to find Sherlock back in their room the next morning, but he was nowhere to be seen. Sherlock didn’t usually spend the whole night outside, but it wasn’t unheard of. He’d come back looking half-drowned and the worse for the wear on one occasion, tramping mud through the kitchen after running down a suspect that had jumped into the Thames.

For now, John shrugged it off and checked his phone. The first session of the day was starting in an hour, another big assembly where all the conference goers would be assembled. Sherlock would be back before then, and they could walk over together.

In the meantime, he headed into the shared bathroom and ran the shower, making sure the door separating the adjacent bedroom was locked. He heard its occupants shuffling around, speaking in low murmurs whose words he couldn’t make out.

He looked around for a place to hang his towel and found none, settling for slinging it over the shower’s tiled wall instead. The floor was cold. For all the blazing heat of yesterday afternoon, this morning had dawned chilly.

John took a quick shower, not intending to linger. The hot water sluicing its way down his back felt amazing, and John tipped his head forward to let it rinse the shampoo from his hair. He ran his hands through to get the remnants of the bubbles out, and it put him in mind of yesterday evening, running his hand through Sherlock’s hair.

The moan that he hadn’t allowed to escape his mouth then came out now, sorely belated. The soft sound echoed off the spare tile walls. He let his hand wander down to his prick, which was beginning to rise to the occasion. He gave it a few slow, lingering tugs before his brain caught up with his actions.

He didn’t do this. He didn’t wank while thinking of his friend and flatmate. And most importantly, he wasn’t gay.

Since when had he even wanted to do this?

He cast around for something, anything, else. Kerry was the first thing to come to mind, the mental picture soft-edged and blurry with the unfamiliarity of a new acquaintance. Sure, that would do. John would take anything at this point. He thought of the soft curve of her lips, the long, strawberry-scented fall of her dark hair. His breath came in shallow pants as he brought himself to the edge quickly.

Quick was better, he had no desire to draw this out. Those lips.

He remembered the soft curve of a kind smile. Thought of plush, full lips kissing his. The image changed, and he imagined the slow drag of stubble against the inside of his thigh, imagined sinking his hands in a thicket of dark curls as Sherlock’s dramatic mouth wrapped around the length of his cock—

John came with a strangled moan, spilling over his hand and spattering the close walls of the shower cubicle. The pleasure didn’t linger for more than a few easy seconds after he finished, chased away by the grimace that took up residence on his face. It was a fact: his brain was an arsehole.

He was  _ not _ fantasizing about Sherlock.

* * *

Sherlock, who didn’t come back to their room after all. John waited until 7:45, until it became clear that the choice was either leave without Sherlock or miss the beginning of the morning session. Skipping it sounded like a fucking fantastic idea, but they were here to do a job, and John couldn’t find it in himself to just sit around when there was work to do.

Besides, he could be waiting around all morning, and more time alone with his treacherous thoughts was the last thing he wanted right now. The first thing he wanted was coffee.

John sighed. Maybe he’d catch Sherlock on the walk to the auditorium.

He didn’t.

He didn’t, but Joanne caught his eye while he was scanning the already-packed room for his errant detective, and she waved him over. Sherlock was nowhere to be found, and they were already dimming the lights, so John walked over and took the empty seat beside Kerry. She was looking much better today. There were no lingering traces of last night’s grief, save a little redness around her nose and eyes, and she greeted him with a cheerful wave. John ignored the pang of guilt he felt over his thoughts in the shower that morning.

They said their hellos, but didn’t have time to say much more before the music started.

* * *

John didn’t see Sherlock until noon. By then he’d sat through the general assembly and a small group seminar that he’d picked at random, not really caring which one he had to sit through. It had just adjourned for lunch. Only half a day of this, and John was already feeling exhausted and irritable.

“Where have you been?” he hissed when Sherlock came strolling up to the table where he was sitting alone.

“Gathering data,” Sherlock said, utterly unperturbed. “Problem?”

“Besides the fact that I spent the morning in a faith healing seminar? A  _ faith healing seminar, _ Sherlock. You could have warned me before you left me alone with these people.”

Sherlock’s brows knit together. “You seemed to be getting on with 6A and 6B. And besides, you grew up around organized religion. I thought you’d be more comfortable.”

“Their names are Kerry and Joanne,” John corrected automatically. “And  _ they’re _ fine. It’s just—” John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off a rapidly brewing headache. He didn’t actually expect Sherlock to understand. “Look, most people don’t  _ like _ the religion they were raised with, especially if they’ve left it. Has it occurred to you that people leave for a reason?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Rebelling against parents and by extension the overarching authoritarian structure, desire to partake in adolescent activities prohibited by the religion—usually of a sexual nature, going away to university and lapsing in church attendance due to lack of community enforcement. All common reasons that people leave the religion of their birth.”

John sighed again. He opened his mouth to argue, but Sherlock was no longer paying attention. He was looking over John’s shoulder, scanning the courtyard for something or someone.

Well, John for one was happy enough to drop it. “What’re you looking for?”

Sherlock held up a finger for silence, and John obliged. He finished his sandwich in peace as Sherlock cataloged something or other behind him. John licked a streak of mustard from his finger as he let his own eyes wander.

People were mostly gathered in clusters, small groups that John assumed knew each other from their various churches. He had looked through the website Sherlock had pulled up when he first took the case. The Amplify conference may or may not be the best Bible conference in the States, as Kerry had claimed, but it was certainly one of the biggest and most well-organized.

The promotional material had billed this as a retreat for Christians of all stripes, but from the conversations John had had so far today, it seemed like most people here worked for one church or another. He’d met youth pastors that seemed unbearably hip with trendy haircuts and tattoos down their arms, and then there were older couples that reminded John quite a lot of his own parents, who still went to mass every Sunday.

He dragged his eyes back to Sherlock, only to find that intent gaze now focused on him.

“What?”

Sherlock reached out, and John involuntarily held his breath as his hand drew near. Sherlock dragged his thumb across the corner of John’s mouth, just catching the curve of his bottom lip as he did. He suppressed the urge to dart his tongue out, to trace it over Sherlock’s digit.

And then Sherlock removed his hand, wiping his fingers on John’s napkin. “Mustard,” he said. The intensity of his focus evaporated, and John started breathing again as Sherlock rattled off all the information he’d learned from Charlie Strathmore, also known as 12E.

“Brilliant,” John said once he’d finished. Sherlock looked pleased. He also looked like he was about to leap up and start interrogating bystanders in the courtyard any minute. He had that gleam in his eye that he sometimes got before terrorizing one of Lestrade’s witnesses, and John cleared his throat.

“How is it that you look more wide awake than me, and I’m the one who slept in a bed last night?” He didn’t mean anything by it, it was just a casual aside, something to say to pass the time and possibly distract Sherlock before he caused a scene, but Sherlock raised his brows as though John had gone simple.

“Of course I slept in a bed last night.”

“Yeah, but you—” His eyes widened, and he had the distinct feeling of the gears in his brain grinding to a screeching halt as he realized what Sherlock meant. “You  _ didn’t.” _

“I told you, I needed information.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Do finish a sentence, John.” Sherlock snapped, impatient. He was giving John his full attention for the first time since yesterday evening, John found he loved it and hated it in equal measure. It made him feel small and frankly a little embarrassed, because what did he think he was doing? He really had no right to complain about what Sherlock did or didn’t do with anyone else.

“But at a  _ Bible conference, _ Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t care about that. You were going on not five minutes ago about how you ‘left the religion of your birth for a reason.’”

“He could be a murderer,” John said, which actually—that was the real problem here. He should have led with that one.

“He’s not,” Sherlock said. “Unfortunately. But he was incredibly forthcoming about the details of his father’s life under the influence of alcohol.”

“You—” It appeared that John couldn’t finish a sentence to save his life right now. He couldn’t tell if he was more disturbed by the thought that Sherlock had plied a witness with alcohol or the fact that he had apparently slept with a murder suspect without so much as letting John in on the plan.

_ I’m going to follow 12E back to his hotel room. _

Okay, or maybe he had. It just hadn’t occurred to him that Sherlock could possibly mean— He found himself feeling  _ jealous, _ of all the ridiculous things. He was being absurd. It wasn’t as though Sherlock was anything to him—not like that, anyway. It wasn’t as though Sherlock couldn’t do what he liked.

He took a deep breath and started again. The case, John. Focus on the case. “What did you learn?”

“Father Strathmore had quite a gambling problem, although he kept it quiet. I’ve been asking around all morning, but it looks like the only people who knew were his wife and son. Our dead minister borrowed a large sum of money from Charlie shortly before his death.”

“And then gambled it away?”

“No, actually. It looks like he gave it to the church. He’d been siphoning money from it for the better part of a year. Recently he took the money from his son and paid back what he’d stolen.”

“Huh,” John said, crumpling his sandwich wrapper. “That seems like something that’d draw attention to himself.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said.

“So why do it? Crisis of conscience?”

“Maybe. I’m hoping his wife will have something for us. Charlie said she’s planning on attending this afternoon’s marriage seminar.”

John’s brows knit together. “Marriage seminar after her husband’s just died? That seems odd.”

Sherlock hummed his agreement. He gave John a once-over then got to his feet. “Let’s take a walk. Your legs are stiff from sitting all day.”

“But the next session is about to start in a few minutes,” John said, even as he got up to follow Sherlock. He _ was _ stiff. His hips were not thanking him for spending the entire morning in hard metal chairs.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and tapped the conference program. “Do you really want to sit through it? It’s the faith healer you disliked so much this morning.”

John shuddered. “No. No, thank you.”

They were here for the case, after all. Their participation in the conference itself was just a cover. If Sherlock didn’t need anything from this next talk, John was more than happy to skip it.

They took an meandering slow path that led them down the university’s many white-paved walkways, past towering buildings rendered in gothic architecture. Despite a few stragglers who were coming back from a late lunch, they were the only ones around to take in the spacious uni grounds. John inhaled, taking in the smell of warm sun-baked asphalt and freshly cut grass.

He told Sherlock what he’d learned from the women he’d talked to. It wasn’t much, but Sherlock nodded as John spoke. He acted as though John had been a big help, which as it turned out, felt good rather than patronizing. John hadn’t realized how unsettled he felt—how much the unfamiliar location and immersion in a strange subculture had knocked him off balance—until he was alone with Sherlock once more. It was like sinking into a warm bath, and he found something that had been wound tight in himself uncoiling as they walked.

They came to the edge of a pond, and John whistled. “Fancy university.”

Sherlock shrugged and bent down. John assumed he’d seen some new piece of evidence, until Sherlock straightened with a smooth, flat stone in hand. He threw it at an angle, and it skipped over the pond’s surface before sinking to its depths.

Sherlock Holmes was skipping rocks.

He was sure his mouth was hanging open, so he closed it. It was such an incongruous sight, on par with a dog standing on two legs or Anderson saying something insightful, especially when Sherlock smiled at him. He handed John a second rock, which John took, mentally shaking himself free from the surprise that held him.

Get a grip, Watson. It’s just a rock.

They stood there in silence, throwing rocks at the university’s expensive water feature until John found the courage to ask about the thing that was bothering him still.

“Why did you sleep with him? Strathmore, I mean.” John flicked another rock at the water. “It’s just, you don’t usually, yeah? With suspects. Witnesses, whatever. Why’d you do it this time?”

If he’d been ready for it, John would have savored the expression that overtook Sherlock’s face. It wasn’t often anyone managed to catch Sherlock off guard.

“You think I had intercourse with Charlie Strathmore?”

As it was, John was too confused to appreciate it, as he realized they’d obviously been having two very different conversations earlier. His brows knit together. “Well, yeah. You did, didn’t you? Got him drunk, did your, ah, did your thing—”  _ Jesus, John, are you twelve? _ “Slept in his bed, caught up with me later…?” He trailed off.

The blank, confused look on Sherlock’s face gave way to some very complicated things John didn’t think he’d ever seen a face do before. Sherlock somehow managed to look amused and offended at the same time, before settling on something that looked a lot like pity. “I got him  _ drunk, _ John. That was the point—not that he needed much encouragement. He passed out on the floor, and I was gone before he awoke.”

“So why bother?”

There was that look again, the one that said  _ how do people who aren’t me function? _

“Because people don’t like talking to nosy detectives, but they’re more than happy to bare their souls to inebriated strangers with handsome faces and hopes of taking them to bed.” Sherlock slurred his words just a bit as he spoke—not laying it on too thick, but sounding like he’d had a few himself—and staggered as they walked.

He bumped into John and slung an arm over his shoulder, heavy and clumsy, leaning into him. He turned to look at John, hair flopping in his eyes that were somehow guileless and unguarded even as they gravitated to John’s mouth, staring. His lips were parted, and his breath was hot and damp against John’s cheek. John’s heart was hammering in his chest as Sherlock leaned closer. He was transfixed by that tiny flash of tongue, and he leaned in as if pulled by an unseen force—

—and then Sherlock straightened with a smirk as if nothing had happened. “Expedient way to get information, that’s all.”

He walked on ahead, leaving John jogging to catch up. His brain needed a few moments to process what the hell had just happened. He felt an undeniable rush of relief, and then an entirely new breed of worry hot on its heels.

Why did he care so much who Sherlock did or didn’t sleep with?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After some thinking, I decided to switch to daily updates until the story is finished. This is a story that I think wants to be read in quick gulps as opposed to short sips. There's also some heavier stuff coming that I think I'd prefer to move us through quickly, as opposed to letting it sit for days on end. If you have any strong feelings on pacing one way or the other, I guess let me know. <3

The respite from the conference was exactly what John needed. Sherlock was right; fresh air and the chance to stretch his legs did him good, and he felt more himself by the time they returned for the marriage seminar, where they were meant to meet Mrs. Strathmore.

Sherlock found the right room with an unerring sense of direction, without even looking at the program. This, John noted, in stark contrast with his own severe lack of navigational skills this morning. He’d only just barely managed to find his way around the university’s complicated corridors, and that was with his nose buried in the helpfully supplied map.

“You probably memorized the map before we even got here,” John joked.

Sherlock blinked. “Of course I did.”

Right. That was… frankly, that wasn’t even surprising.

John was about to walk in and take a seat, but Sherlock stopped him with a hand on his arm. He tried to ignore the way the touch prickled on his skin, raising gooseflesh along his forearm where those long fingers had gripped.

“A moment,” Sherlock said. He pulled out his phone and started to text, and John shrugged. He stuck his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the wall, content to wait until Sherlock finished whatever he was doing. It wasn’t as though he were dying to see what whoever this was had to say about marriage.

They waited ten more minutes, until a well-kept blonde woman around his mum’s age walked in a few minutes before 1 o’clock. Sherlock’s head snapped up as soon as she’d disappeared through the door, and he slid his phone back into his coat pocket. He waited a minute more before nodding and going inside himself. John followed, and predictably, Sherlock found them a pair of seats near the back, across the aisle from the woman they’d seen outside.

“Mrs. Strathmore?” John whispered.

Sherlock nodded once, already distracted.

A powerpoint flickered to life on the screen, and an older bespectacled man took his place at the front of the room. He greeted everyone and thanked them for coming, and John avoided the impulse to glance to his right. He was curious what Sherlock was seeing, but he knew the detective would tell him later. It wasn’t as though he’d be able to glean anything useful from looking at Mrs. Strathmore—not like Sherlock could—and if he looked he’d only call attention to the both of them.

With a small sigh, John resigned himself to sitting through the lecture and actually listening. If only he had a mind palace like Sherlock, he thought idly. He flipped open his complimentary notebook with the word AMPLIFY emblazoned on the front. At least he could pretend to take notes. He doodled absentmindedly as the man talked, letting his pen roam the page making aimless lines that he connected into shapes—a cloud here, a tree there.

It was terribly dull, but no more dull than this speech. The man had a voice that could peel paint, yet somehow it was still on the verge of putting John to sleep. That was, until a sudden phrase piqued his interest.

_ The sanctity of marriage. _

Now there’s one he hadn’t heard in a long time. It took him back to being a young boy in catechism class, bringing to mind admonishments against divorce, premarital sex, masturbation—all the bogeymen meant to put good little Catholic girls and boys off sex, not that it had a lot of success in that department.

Still, John found himself listening if not with interest, then with a morbid fascination, wondering what would come out of this fellow’s mouth next.

“God’s design for marriage is one man and one woman together for life. Anything else is a perversion of his perfect plan. As a church, we’re called to resist the influence of the world that says it’s okay to give into the lusts of the flesh. As the Bible says in Leviticus 18:22, ‘ You shall not lie with a man as with a woman; it  _ is _ an abomination. ’ This is the word of God, people. We ignore it at our peril.” He thumped the glossy, leatherbound book he was holding for emphasis.

John’s fists clenched involuntarily by his sides. He grit his teeth shut tight against the sudden furious desire to tell his man off. He thought of Harry and all the shit she’d had to deal with. He thought of himself, in the instant before his mind flinched away.

He was at once not at all okay with being here.

And then, breaking through the miasma of rage and deep-buried shame, a gentle touch on his thigh. John glanced over and saw Sherlock, the picture of a rapt audience member; if he didn’t know better he’d think Sherlock was exactly the good Christian husband he pretended to be, except that Sherlock’s hand had reached over, and he squeezed John’s thigh.

It was a comfort. In this moment, it felt like a lifeline.

John put his hand over Sherlock’s and squeezed back, just briefly before turning back to his notes. Sherlock didn’t say anything, but he left his hand on John’s leg for the remainder of the lecture.

* * *

John had never been more glad to get out of a lecture in his life.

Mrs. Strathmore was a bust. Despite watching her for the better part of an hour and sending John to ask questions disguised as condolences and pleasant small talk, they’d learned nothing new. Or at least, nothing of note. John had learned that the Strathmores’ dog Chippy was beside herself since her master’s death. Apparently the toy poodle kept her surviving owner up barking half the night. He suggested an antihistamine, since that’s what his family had always given their dog on Guy Fawkes Night.

Sherlock, on the other hand, dropped his polite churchgoer act as soon as it became clear they’d get nothing useful from Father Strathmore’s widow.

_ “Boring,” _ he said, rolling his eyes at what he clearly deemed an inferior conversation. “Come, John.”

John shot the scandalized, grieving woman an apologetic look. “Sorry, he’s uh— not good with people,” he said in the understatement of the century, before following Sherlock back to their dorm.

Sherlock opted to do more research on his laptop in lieu of eating during the evening break. He actually seemed to have forgotten meals were a thing that ordinary people did, if the blank look he gave John’s suggestion of dinner was anything to go on.

“What for?” He’d replied, and John had simply left him to it, managing to track down a disappointing dinner of crisps from a vending machine in the hall.

John was a good third of the way through the thriller novel he’d brought before he heard Sherlock close his laptop with a sound of disgust. He rested his book open-side down on the bed beside him, twisting in his bunk to look at Sherlock. “Problem?”

“We’ll have to go to tonight’s assembly after all. The speaker was a friend of the victim’s from university, and I want to observe him interacting with the deceased’s family.” He made another frustrated noise low in his throat. “I thought I’d have solved this by now.”

Sherlock looked… apologetic. Now that was weird. Maybe this conference was getting to him just as much as it was getting to John, making them both act strangely.

“I didn’t realize when I took this case…” He cleared his throat. “I didn’t consider that religion is a difficult subject for many, and that due to your upbringing, it would affect you more than most. I’m sorry.”

John shrugged, at once touched by Sherlock’s concern and embarrassed that he’d apparently been acting so out of sorts that the detective deemed it necessary. “It’s fine. I knew what I was signing up for when I agreed to come, didn’t I?”

Sherlock studied his face for long seconds before nodding once. “I suppose you did. Thank you.”

* * *

Whatever Sherlock got from watching that evening’s speaker, he seemed pleased by it. He was in high spirits as they trudged back to their dorm, following the slow-moving throng as it emptied from the auditorium. John thought Sherlock might hand him the key again and take off in search of more clues, especially now that Sherlock seemed so keen on solving this case quickly, and he said as much.

Sherlock shook his head, letting them both into their darkened room with a swipe of the card. “There’s nothing else I can get tonight, no witnesses to question—or at least, none that would be amenable to it at this hour. It’ll keep until tomorrow.”

He walked straight into the room without hesitation, leaving it to John to flip the light on. He was already undressing, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning his trousers, completely unselfconscious. John found himself staring and felt like a cad watching his best friend undress like some kind of peeping tom. He’d shared locker rooms with men in school and the army both, but this felt somehow different. The reason Sherlock felt so comfortable undressing in front of him was because he trusted John (and because he’s Sherlock and normal rules don’t apply, his mind helpfully supplied), and John felt like he was taking advantage.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat and looked away, climbing into his bunk before he embarrassed himself.

“Are you feeling alright?” Sherlock asked. “You don’t usually go to bed this early.”

The sound of his voice drew John’s attention, and he looked at Sherlock nearly against his will. He was wearing pants and a t-shirt that John had seen him wear many times before, usually on lazy days loafing around their flat when they had nothing on. It looked soft and worn, and John itched to sink his fingers into it, to put his nose into the collar and see if Sherlock smelled as good as he looked. He balled his hands at his sides instead.

“Fine,” John said, pleased at how steady and nonchalant his voice came out. “Just a little tired. I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“I’m going to stay up, but I don’t need the light,” Sherlock said. “I’ll try to keep quiet.”

“Ta,” John said, and a moment later the room was plunged into cool darkness.

Well that was uncharacteristically considerate of Sherlock. Unfortunately, it was also totally wasted on him, since he had lied. He wasn’t tired at all. If anything, he was antsy, half-hard, and confused and annoyed by both those things. At least in the dark, Sherlock wouldn’t be able to read the truth of it on his face.

He tried to get comfortable, pulling the covers over himself and settling into the scratchy pillow that still smelled faintly of bleach. He heard the quiet shuffle of Sherlock climbing into his own bed and saw the glowing blue light wash over the detective’s face as he pulled out his mobile. The only noise in the room was the sound of Sherlock tapping at the keys.

John watched for a while, then closed his eyes.

He didn’t expect to sleep, but he must have drifted off because when he awoke, the room was pitch black. Even the illumination from Sherlock’s phone had been dimmed, and he wondered if it was possible that Sherlock was actually sleeping for once. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but he woke feeling groggy and discombobulated.

He lay in bed, letting his mind spin out in the darkness. He dragged a hand over his face and sat up in bed. He couldn’t see Sherlock in the dark room, but he heard the other man shift in his own bed. He could picture the detective angling himself toward the sound of John’s movement, his voice.

“Sherlock?” he called quietly.

“Yes, John?” His voice sounded groggy with sleep, but he was awake.

John’s heart was hammering in his chest, like he’d been having nightmares he couldn’t remember. His throat felt painfully tight when he spoke.

“The church hurts people, you know.” Sherlock was quiet, but it was an anticipatory silence. John pushed onward. “Your list, the reasons people stop going. That’s one of them. They stop going because it hurts too much to go back.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t know if he wanted one, not from mister sentiment-is-superfluous-in-all-ways. He felt like he’d just bared a piece of his soul, a particularly rough, raw piece that didn’t often see the light of day.

John was not often a coward, but he didn’t want to wait to see what Sherlock did with that. He punched his pillow in an attempt to get comfortable, folded it double underneath his head and faced the wall. He could feel the coolness radiating off the smooth, painted concrete, even without touching it.

When he stopped moving, he could hear the sound of their breath mingling in the quiet room, his and Sherlock’s. Someone coughed across the hall. The walls really were paper thin.

And then the squeak of bedsprings as weight shifted on a mattress. The deep thud of Sherlock’s bare feet hitting the floor, the drop from his makeshift loft bed making it loud. The quiet sound of Sherlock padding across the room. John turned toward the sound.

It was a moonless night, and the room was blacker than black. Sherlock was nothing more than an amorphous shadow, a shape darker than the liquid night of the room, visible only if he screwed up his eyes to focus. John slid his eyes shut, and it looked the same.

He felt Sherlock, felt the disturbance he made in the air, the steady inhale and exhale of his breath like a metronome, soothing John, keeping his runaway heart from skipping the track entirely and taking off into the night.

“Sherlock, what are you—?” John breathed. That couldn’t be his voice, that was someone else’s voice. It was high and thready and thin. It sounded much too weak to be his own.

Sherlock didn’t shush him with a biting word, didn’t so much as make a sound. He swallowed up the rest of John’s question with a press of his lips. They were dry and brushed against John’s own with the barest hint of friction. His lips were lightly chapped, and the light layer of stubble on his skin scratched against John’s chin. John moaned at the light touch, the sound broken and free and inescapable.

He felt Sherlock’s hand slide up the nape of his neck to cradle the back of his head, grip firm and sure. His hands were big and solid, so much larger than any other hands he’d had on him like this. John felt dizzy at the thought. Sherlock kissed him soundly this time, slotting their lips together with practiced ease. His tongue darted out to taste John’s lips, delicate and probing, followed by sharp teeth that captured his bottom lip and tugged playfully. John groaned at the feeling, and his arms twisted around Sherlock’s neck of their own accord, drawing him closer while Sherlock took his open mouth as an invitation.

There was that tongue again, but there was nothing delicate about it this time. Sherlock plundered his mouth, licking his way inside and running his tongue along every molar and every ridge of his teeth. It felt like Sherlock was  _ cataloging _ him, and that was just so  _ Sherlock _ it made him feel light-heated with want.

“Oh  _ god, _ what are you doing to me?” He breathed against Sherlock’s mouth.

At last some crucial part of his brain kicked back online again, and John came alive under Sherlock. He gave as good as he got, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s lean-muscled back, fisting his hands in the worn material of Sherlock’s t-shirt that was just as soft as it looked. He gave a small tug, trying to get  _ closer _ and  _ skin _ and  _ more,  _ and was rewarded with Sherlock clambering into bed with him.

Now that they were both in bed, the angle was better, but something about  _ bed _ made this all too real. This was Sherlock.  _ Sherlock _ was in bed with him. It was well and good to snog a stranger in the dark—in the dark it could be anyone, but it wasn’t just anyone, was it? John was the coward who’d pretend it was—who’d shag his  _ best friend _ and then pretend it hadn’t happened in the morning, like that time he had done in the army—but his treacherous mind wouldn’t let him.  _ Sherlock, _ it said. A whole, unceasing litany of it,  _ Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. _

He froze, going utterly still under the weight of the shrieking cacophony in his mind.

He didn’t know if it was better or worse that the knowledge of it—of knowing exactly who and what this was—only made him want it all the more. It was too much, that was all he knew. Sherlock felt him tense up, seemed to sense the exact moment John’s mood changed, because of course he did. Wasn’t that just—

“John,” Sherlock said softly, speaking for the first time, cutting through all the noise and bullshit in John’s head, and that. That was just it, wasn’t it? His voice was full of such care, soft and imploring and heartrendingly tender.

It ripped John in two.

He didn’t know where the sob came from, would’ve said that crying was the furthest thing from his mind thirty seconds ago when he was trying to memorize the taste of his flatmate’s mouth, but there it was. And once the tears started coming, they wouldn’t stop. Suddenly, John was crying for everything he hadn’t even realized he’d lost. For the times his father had called Harry a queer and kicked her out, for the time he gave John a black eye for fighting him on it. For the way he didn’t remember it in the morning, waking up surrounded by empty beer cans and a bottle of Johnny Walker. For the boy John had loved in high school but turned away because he was too afraid. For every single time he insisted he was  _ not gay. _

He was crying for the religion he’d loved once upon a time, a religion that had no place for him. For the unconditional love of God he was promised that he lost when he’d lost his religion. He cried for the comfort he’d once found in prayer that he’d gone 23 long years without.

He was like an overripe fruit, split open and weeping in the sun. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him to his chest, a life raft in the storm. He let John rest his head and soak the cotton of his shirt through with tears and snot. John cried in ugly, wracking sobs until he was wrung out, until he was dry and bereft, with no more tears left to give.

Sherlock held him through it. John’s tears slowed and then stopped, and Sherlock didn’t let go. He rubbed small, soothing circles into John’s back, and John let himself be lulled by the motion. His breathing evened out, and his heart fell in time with the slow, steady beat of Sherlock’s once more.

At last, John took one last, shuddering breath. It was unsteady with the aftermath of his tears.

“Better?”

John opened his mouth to give an automatic response, to toss out the word  _ fine,  _ to burn this new thing between them like a match, but he held his tongue and took stock of his body instead. He was surprised to find that he actually did feel better. He felt clean, hollowed out and new.

“Yeah,” he said, voice watery and wet, and most of all  _ honest. _ “It actually is.”

John shifted, just a small movement in his shoulders to push himself upright, but Sherlock’s hands left his back, left off the absentminded patterns they’d been stroking into his pyjama shirt.

“If you want to go back to sleep,” the detective started, and John could feel his weight shifting as he made to leave, to go back to his own bed.

John shook his head. “Stay.”

John didn’t go far, just moved his face from the wet spot on Sherlock’s chest, scooted himself upright until he could rest his head in the crook of Sherlock’s neck. As soon as he settled himself, Sherlock’s hands returned, more tentative this time. They rested lightly on John’s shoulders as if giving him permission to go.

It was like the dark wove a kind of magic around them both, making them both something different. Something more. It transformed his often prickly, always arrogant flatmate into something softer, someone who could hold him as he found his way through  _ this, _ whatever this was. ( _ Sex, _ his heart would have helpfully supplied.  _ Love, _ it would have said, if he had been ready to hear it. But he wasn’t, so his mind called it  _ this, _ and his heart agreed to compromise. For now.)

It turned him into someone who could accept the comfort. Someone who could feel this sense of sorrow without sublimating it into rage, into a joke, into something safer and less revealing.

For right now, he was someone who could nuzzle his nose into the side of Sherlock’s neck, in the space where his collar turned into skin still sleep-warmed and so inviting he wanted to stick his tongue out to taste it.

In the end, it was the smell that did it. The scent that was pure Sherlock, soap and skin and the faint hint of musk. John stuck his nose into Sherlock’s shirt where the scent was most concentrated and inhaled deeply. It smelled like home.

Amid the fear and uncertainty, amid the echoes of childhood priests speaking in shades of  _ abomination _ and  _ affront to God, _ amid his father slurring  _ faggot _ and  _ dyke _ and  _ queer _ like it was a curse, one thing cut through the noise in his unquiet mind:

It was just Sherlock.

It was a truth simple enough to cut through the noise like a knife, exposing the heart of the thing.

It was just  _ Sherlock. _ He knew Sherlock inside and out. Sherlock, who kept body parts in the fridge. Sherlock,who texted him when they were in the same flat. Sherlock, who could be a pompous arse, but who was also the most brilliant and loyal man John had ever met. Sherlock, who had just spent the last twenty minutes comforting John through a breakdown in the middle of the night, in a dorm room in Illinois.

The sudden clarity of it made him want to laugh. None of the rest of it mattered.

Fuck it, he stuck out his tongue and tasted, just a little lick against the side of Sherlock’s neck, just enough to taste the light layer of salt there, leftover from sleep sweat. This close, John could feel Sherlock tense, could hear the slight hitch in his breath when John licked him.

The sound shot to his prick like a rocket, made him instantly hard. Fuck, he wanted more. He did it again, less tentative this time. He licked a long, wet stripe up the side of Sherlock’s throat and was rewarded by a throaty, deep moan.

_ “John,” _ Sherlock groaned.

Fuck. Yes.

“Want you,” John mouthed into his skin. “God, I want you.” He pushed his hands under Sherlock’s shirt and gasped when he got his fingers on the warm, smooth expanse of skin there.

_ “Yes,” _ Sherlock said. “Oh god, yes.  _ John.” _

They kissed, and it was all clacking teeth and urgent, roaming tongues. John suddenly had no idea how he’d ever lived without this, didn’t know if he could ever live without it ever again. They came up for air, and John pulled at Sherlock’s shirt. “Off,” he gasped. “Take this off.

Sherlock complied, stripping his shirt off lightning-quick, while John did the same. He tossed his shirt to the ground, heedless of where it fell. He’d find it tomorrow. They were on each other again in an instant, mouths like magnets. The force of it carried John to his back, and he found he quite liked it—the feeling of being pinned, 160 pounds of squirming, hot-mouthed detective on top of him.

“John,” Sherlock said again, and he couldn’t get enough of it. His name sounded like prayer from Sherlock’s lips. He bucked upward, rutting into Sherlock’s thigh, gasping at the feeling of it, the blessed, delicious pressure against his aching cock.

Sherlock sucked a bruise into his neck, just barely on the right side of pain, and John groaned loud and unabashed.

“The neighbors will hear you,” Sherlock breathed in his ear, and fuck, had his voice always sounded like that?

“Don’t care,” John growled. “Fuck the neighbors,” before capturing Sherlock’s lips again.

Sherlock gave it to him, kissed him thoroughly before slowly pulling away. John reached up, desperately wanting to contact again, but Sherlock’s long, thin fingers held him down, pressed his shoulders into the mattress, and hello there—that was something John hadn’t realized he’d liked, but it turned out he’d like a  _ lot _ more of that, please. He let his head fall back against the pillow with a thud. It occurred to him that he might just like everything as long as it was Sherlock doing it.

His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he could just barely make out Sherlock’s body, the outline of his torso, the halo of curls around his head, eyes glittering in the dim light.

“Do you want this?” Sherlock asked. “Do you really, truly want this? Because if it’s just a dalliance, a tryst in an unfamiliar locale…” He trailed off. John heard him swallow, the sound just noticeable above the rhythm of his own ragged breath. “We can do that, but you’re going to have to tell me. Tell me how you want this to go.”

His voice still sounded like sex, like a thousand promises in the dark, but below it was something that sounded a lot like uncertainty. Like vulnerability. John’s heart clenched in his chest at the thought.

“I love you,” John blurted.

The room was silent in the wake of his confession. John blinked. He had surprised himself.

“You—” Sherlock started at last. The word hung in the air between them.

John found that he didn’t want to take it back. It was true, of course it was true. It might have been the truest thing he ever said in his life.

“I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” he said again, and his voice gained confidence as he spoke. He could have laughed aloud, for the sheer joy of it.  _ I love Sherlock. _ It was like saying the sky was blue. It just was. In fact, the only strange thing was that it had taken him so long to realize it.

“I—” Sherlock started. He stopped. He crushed John to his chest.

He couldn’t pinpoint  _ when _ he’d began to love Sherlock. It wasn’t that kind of love, like a light switch on and off. Nothing like love at first sight. It was… it was like sinking into a warm bath, the way it gradually chased the winter’s chill from your bones.

He shifted his hips, leveraging his way out from beneath Sherlock. Sherlock took the hint, easing himself back so he was laying on his side, facing John. John reached up and traced the side of his face, feeling the dramatic planes of it, the way the jut of cheekbone gave way to a valley, and then a bony line of jaw. They were so close he could feel Sherlock’s breath on his face, coming in short, shallow puffs. He traced his hand over Sherlock’s eyes and felt him blink, felt him staring in the dark.

“You’re a wonder, John Watson,” Sherlock said.

The improbability of any of this was staggering. And yet, his recent confession of love aside, John couldn’t help but flinch at the touch as Sherlock cupped his hand over the bulge in John’s pants. Sherlock pulled back. “No?”

John blew out a breath, frustrated with himself and more than a little embarrassed. “It’s fine,” John said. He could hear the concern in Sherlock’s voice. “I’m just— it’s just a lot.”

He could still feel the weight of his own uncertainty and others’ judgment pressing down on him. Apparently love alone didn’t erase 39 years of shame overnight.

“That’s alright,” Sherlock said. “We can just stay like this.”

John felt tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Surprising, that, he’d have thought they were all used up. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Don’t be,” Sherlock said, tightening his arms where they were wrapped around John. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”


	5. Chapter 5

John woke to sticky, sweat-slicked skin and piercing blue eyes staring into his. They were wearing nothing but their pants, his cock was making itself known with all the eloquence of morning wood, and he really needed to take a piss. He also couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so soundly.

“Morning,” Sherlock rumbled, voice sleep-soaked and devastating.

God bless the wonders of sight. Waking to Sherlock in his bed was a fantastic idea in theory.  _ Seeing _ it was a thousand times stranger and more wonderful. John expected panic, a redux of his sexuality crisis from last night, but there was none. Just warm honey light from the window and miles of warm skin pressed against him from chest to flank. He leaned forward and kissed the uncertainty out of Sherlock’s mouth, answering the question he saw written there with soft licks and morning breath.

He felt the moment Sherlock’s lips curled up in a smile, pressed up against his.

Sherlock’s hands wandered across his skin, skimming downward over the curve of his hip, the dusting of hair on his belly. His fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his pants, when John’s mobile alarm rudely went off.

The moment broke apart like a spiderweb. He made a sound of frustration in the back of his throat as Sherlock’s hand froze and ultimately retreated. He took a last, lingering look at Sherlock, at his riotous curls, mussed and wild, staining the cheap white pillowcase like spilled ink. He was heartachingly lovely, and John again wondered how he’d ever gone a single second without marveling at it.

“I don’t suppose you feel like skipping this morning’s assembly?” John asked.

John already knew the answer would be no, but as his gran would’ve said, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Sherlock shook his head the little bit he was able, resting as it was against the pillow. “Last full day of the conference, and we’ve yet to catch our killer.” He pushed himself upright and blinked, getting his bearings. His face, once soft and open with sleep, sharpened into the laser-focused man John had come to know. He leaned down and brushed his lips against the side of John’s mouth. “Later, though,” he said before hopping down off the bed and padding into the bathroom.

* * *

John was ready to go by the time Sherlock stomped back into the room in a huff.

“Neighbors walked in on you?” John asked knowingly. “Should’ve locked the door.” He didn’t bother looking up from his phone, and he didn’t need to ask to know what had happened. He’d heard the stammered apology of one of the blokes next door, followed by Sherlock’s  _ Do you mind?  _ punctuated by a hurled stream of invectives.

“This architecture is barbaric,” Sherlock sniffed.

“Yeah, well. Barbaric architecture or no, you’d better hurry up and get dressed. You’re the one who wants to go to this thing.”

John could have happily stayed in bed all day.

“Fine,” Sherlock huffed.

John ignored his bad attitude, already totally accustomed to Sherlock’s strops. He only looked up at the heavy, unmistakable sound of a towel hitting the ground. The detective was standing there stark naked, all long, lean lines and pale, creamy skin.

He didn’t realize he was staring until Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “Like something you see?”

John groaned. “Yes, you git. All of it. That’s been firmly established. Jesus, it’s like you’re  _ trying _ to kill me.”

“I doubt Jesus has much to do with it.” Sherlock winked—actually  _ winked— _ at him. “And I’m just giving you something to think about. To get through the boring seminars you don’t want to go to.”

“Sadist,” John muttered.

Sherlock pulled on his clothes, fairly preening under John’s gaze. Oh, he would be thinking about it all right.

* * *

The first assembly of the day, the general session, was fine. It was innocuous by anyone’s standards, and John even found himself enjoying parts of it. The speaker was a plump, charismatic woman who spoke passionately about the reason millennials and Gen Zers were leaving the church in droves.

“They aren’t leaving the church out of a sense of rebellion—or at least, not entirely. These kids, these teens and young adults, they want truth and justice,” she said with fierce conviction. “They want to directly engage with the problems they see in the world, and they don’t see the church as a place to do that. You get one chance. If they don’t find what they’re looking for in the church, they  _ will _ find it elsewhere, so make that chance count.

“Make authentic connections. Real relationships are the goal. People can tell when you’re treating them as projects to be fixed.”

John found himself nodding along to most of the sermon and even waited until the crowd had died down afterward to go shake her hand. “Just a moment,” he told Sherlock, who shrugged and waved John off.

“I really liked what you had to say up there,” John said when he reached her. She was collecting her notes and sticking them all back into an oversized bag. “It was…” He searched for the word. “Very even-handed.”

“Thank you!” The woman chirped, brushing a lock of short hair behind her ear. “People are so quick to criticize the youth, and while they haven’t got everything right, I think we don’t usually give them nearly enough credit.”

John nodded. “That makes a lot of sense, yeah.”

“Visiting pastor?” She asked him.

“Me?” John asked, taken aback. He laughed nervously, thinking back to finding himself in bed with Sherlock earlier this morning. Thinking of all the decidedly un-Christian things he still wanted to do with him later. “No, just a layman. Here out of interest.” He sighed and let the too-bright grin drop from his face. “No, that’s not actually true. I’m not interested in this stuff at all, as a general rule. My… friend and I are here for business.”

He didn’t know why he felt compelled to be honest with this woman. She seemed so understanding. She wasn’t like the priests he remembered from his Catholic school days, nor some of the hellfire-and-brimstone holly rollers he’d been treated to in the last two days. She seemed singular, in her own way. Her ideas were at least interesting.

She nodded, wholly unbothered. “Well, I hope you get something out of it. Actually, I’m doing a seminar down the hall in half an hour. If you liked my talk, you might like that too.” She caught John glancing at Sherlock, who had found his way into a conversation with two women he recognized. “Bring your friend.”

She had collected all her things, and now she stuck out her hand. John shook it. “Yeah, I might just do that,” he said, and he found that he meant it.

He headed back toward Sherlock, catching up in time to hear the tail end of a story he didn’t recognize. Sherlock was laying it on thick, then. Joanne was practically holding her sides in laughter, and Kerry was gripping the railing to stay upright as she howled.

“John!” Kerry said when she saw him, pulling him into a hug as Joanne waved politely.

“Hey,” John said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Looks like I missed something good.”

“Sherlock here was just telling us tales of your adventures,” Joanne said, eyes crinkling with the vestiges of laughter. “You’ve been holding out on us.”

“Was he now?” John asked, trying to read Sherlock’s face. Had he actually told them they were investigating a murder?

Sherlock spread his hands in a show of surrender. “You caught me. In my defense, they really did pry it out of me.”

“I had no idea journalism was so exciting,” Kerry said.

_ Ah. _

He got it in bits and pieces then, as Kerry and Joanne peppered him and Sherlock with questions. He let Sherlock answer most of the, but it was a surprisingly easy lie. Pulling details from cases and writing the blog made for a pretty convincing cover story as a journalist. When he caught Sherlock’s eye, the detective gave him a sly smirk—of course he’d known it would be easy for John to pretend; that’s why he’d picked journalism. And he was smug about it too.

Sherlock wove his own deft touches into the conversation, fleshing out their story so that if John didn’t know better, he’d have been inclined to believe the fiction himself.

Since he did know better, mostly he allowed himself to just appreciate Sherlock at work. His body language was open, and his voice was warm and friendly. He was engaged, leaning in with interest when their companions talked, being frankly charming. It was almost disconcerting how good Sherlock was at pretending to be a totally different person.

John didn’t realize he’d wandered off in his own head and tuned out the conversation until he heard someone calling his name.

“Sorry?”

“I said, where to next?” Sherlock repeated, slinging his arm around John’s shoulder.

It was nothing. Just a friendly gesture, just part of the act, but John tensed beneath the touch nevertheless. He couldn’t help it, he glanced at Kerry and Joanne, trying to guess if they  _ knew, _ if everyone could tell he was queer now.

Sherlock noticed—Sherlock noticed everything, always—but in this case, he tightened his grip on John’s shoulder just fractionally. John could feel the press of his arm like a leaden weight. He wanted to lean into it. He wanted to shrug it off and put distance between them.

He split the difference and ignored it instead.

Clearing his throat, he answered the question as though he wasn’t having his own internal sexuality crisis. “I was talking to that last speaker, and she suggested we come round to her seminar. Unless you have something else you’d rather see?”

Like some new suspect to chase down. Tell me you have someone to interrogate so we can get out of here.

Sherlock shook his head, an innocent, common gesture that tossed his curls in his eyes. It looked utterly out of place on Sherlock’s haughty features. “Nothing in particular. We’ll do whatever you want, dear,” Sherlock said, right before he pressed a kiss to the side of John’s cheek, arm still wound around his shoulder like a snake.

John froze.

No. He was not going to play this game now, here, whatever it was.

He pulled away, which involved a bit of physically shaking Sherlock off, since his grip had now turned rather vice-like. John shot a smile at their friends, hoping there was a chance it didn’t look as ridiculous as he was sure it did.

No such luck, judging by the gentle, confused concern on their faces.

“Hey, we, ah, we should go,” he blurted. “Seminar’s starting soon, wouldn’t want to miss—” He hadn’t caught the speaker’s name.

“Judith Evans,” Joanne supplied. She bit her lip and reached out, “Look, John—”

He stepped away, deftly dodging the pat on the back or whatever the fuck that was about to be. The pity, sympathy, revulsion, desire to save his soul—whatever it was he didn’t want it, just like he didn’t want whatever stupid game Sherlock was playing with him.

“Ta for the chat. We’ll see you later, yeah? Maybe,” John said brightly. He turned on his heel, not waiting to see if Sherlock was following him. Not really caring if he wasn’t.

Which meant, of course, that Sherlock followed him close as a shadow.

“What the fuck was that?” John hissed as they made their way through the open courtyard, past stragglers that paid them no mind.

“You like them,” Sherlock said. “You find their company more tolerable than most of the people here, and I’m encouraging your acquaintance.”

That stopped John in his tracks. “You were being nice,” he realized.

“That’s what you’re always after me to do, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked, sounding annoyed now. “Be  _ nice. _ What did that get us, by the way? Besides your little crisis of sexuality back there.

“Now hold on a minute there. That’s not fair. I’m trying. And anyway, we’re supposed to be undercover. If you’re done drawing attention to us—”

“Oh,  _ I’m _ drawing attention to us? I realize you couldn’t see yourself, but let me assure you that acting as though you’ve found a fly in your porridge is generally not the way people respond to terms of endearment. Or do you only ‘love’ me in the dark where no one can see you?” He sneered.

John flinched. “That’s not fair,” he said again, but he sounded unsure even to his own ears.

“Then maybe I’ve had quite enough of fair,” Sherlock said. “Because it doesn’t seem to be doing either of us any good.”

The detective drew himself up, and he seemed to get taller. The look on his face could wither life itself, beautiful and remote, cold as marble, but before that—raw hurt, just a flash of it, there and gone so quick John would have missed it if he blinked. He pushed past John roughly and strode off.

And John suddenly felt very small.

Sherlock was right, and he knew it. It was just a kiss and a chaste one at that, light and affectionate. It was a kiss he could have given his grandma, something he’d done with girlfriends dozens of times without giving it a second thought. But in that moment, it had filled him with a flood of shame and fear,  _ (what if they see?) _ and he hated himself for it.

He thought of going after Sherlock to apologize—to say what, exactly?  _ Hey, sorry I freaked out when you committed the grave offense of kissing my cheek in front of women I’ve known for two days. I promise I really do love you despite throwing a fit about you touching me in public. _

Yeah, that would probably go over great.

He watched Sherlock’s retreating form until he rounded a corner and disappeared from sight, making up John’s mind for him.

He sighed. Well, he wasn’t going to stand here for the next hour, and Judith Evans hadn’t been half bad. Might as well go to the talk like he said he would.

* * *

The seminar was probably good.

Dr. Evans was a gifted speaker, passionate about social justice and seemingly actually interested in the well-being of the youth of America. She was compassionate and whip smart without being condescending. The topic was even interesting.

However, not a bit of that penetrated John’s black mood. He was so busy mulling over his conversation with Sherlock that he was surprised when the room erupted with applause, signaling the end of the session. He dragged a hand over his face and pulled his mobile out of his pocket to check it.

No text messages, but he already knew that. He hadn’t been able to keep from fidgeting with it throughout the seminar, pulling it out compulsively to check if he’d missed the buzz that indicated a new text, a missed call.

He’d hurt Sherlock. He’d been an enormous arse, and now Sherlock thought John was ashamed of him. And why not, when John had been acting like it?

Way to go, Watson.

He growled and stuffed his mobile back into his trouser pocket, pulling it out again after a moment’s deliberation.

_ I’m sorry, _ he typed. He stared at it for a long moment, long enough that people jostled him on their way out of the aisle, and he was left sitting in the empty classroom alone, finger hovering over the Send button.  _ I’m an arse, _ he finished before making up his mind and pressing Send.

The response came almost instantaneously.  _ Killer found, come at once. - SH _

The second text was hot on its heels.  _ No, you’re not. -SH _

John blinked, staring at the phone screen, momentarily jarred by the extreme change in tack. Then he was up like a shot, disturbing the surrounding chairs in his haste. The ruckus drew unamused glares from custodial staff that had come to clean up after the crowd, and an amused eyebrow from Dr. Evans herself who had stayed behind to talk to a young woman.

And John didn’t notice any of that, because he was already yanking his jacket on and running out the door, tapping a frantic response to Sherlock, ignoring the second text because fuck their personal problems at a time like this.

_ Where are you _

_ Do NOT confront killer alone _

_ I’ll kill you if you do _

The answering text didn’t come for an infuriatingly long time—so long that John finally picked a direction and ran in it, heading in the direction he’d last seen Sherlock walking.

_ Provost Pavilion. Hurry. -SH _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go! And I promise this fic will earn every one of its tags before it's over. 😘

John glanced down at the chirruping mobile in his hand, confirming the location without slowing his stride. Provost Pavilion. That didn’t help at all, because John had no idea where that was.

The halls were thick with people, so that he had to dodge them or else end up flat on his arse. John skidded to a stop in front of an information stand full of idle volunteers wearing Amplify t-shirts. They were chattering amongst themselves as John skidded to a stop in front of their table and demanded in his Captain Watson voice,  “Provost Pavilion, where’s it at?”

All three of them looked up blankly, and John tamped down the urge to snap at them. “Please,” he said, trying and mostly failing to keep the irritation from his voice. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

Two of the staff members started arguing with each other over whether the pavilion was past Building E or F, and whether or not attendees should even be walking over there at all when it was clearly out of bounds. He was going to have absolutely no luck there.

He turned to the remaining volunteer, a young man with peach fuzz on his chin and a spotty complexion, who looked like he might actually be a student here. “You go to school here,” he guessed. He wasn’t Sherlock, but he also didn’t care if he was right, just that he got results. “Which way to the pavilion?”

“Uh, it’s that way, past that building and to the left. You’ll see it in the field. But there’s nothing going on—”

John didn’t stick around to thank him or hear the rest of the sentence. He took off at a run in the direction the boy had pointed. He shoved people as he ran, ignoring the protests. Sherlock was not about to get himself killed—not when the last thing John had done with him was argue.

He rounded the corner and quickened his pace as the pavilion came into view. There was Sherlock, and there was a man with bright copper curls shining in the midday sun, holding a gun on him. John’s heart skipped a beat. The field was wide open, empty of anything but perfectly trimmed grass, which meant there was nowhere for John to take cover.

Thank god for small mercies, the gunman’s back was to him—Sherlock’s doing, most likely. He’d have known which direction John was likely to come from.

He could just make out the timbre of the man’s voice. He was talking—that much was good, at least. He might be able to sneak up on them if he was very, very quiet. He pulled out his gun and held it in front of him, walking as quickly and quietly as he could.

As he drew closer, he could to make out actual words. “I know who you are. Seen your picture on the internet. Journalist, my ass.”

And then Sherlock’s smooth baritone, sounding haughty and dismissive as ever. Sounding  _ bored, _ as if some serial killing lunatic didn’t have a gun trained on him with steady arms. “If you know who I am, why didn’t you run? Surely you could have been across state lines in the time it took to lure me here.”

From here John could see the man’s shoulders tense as his finger tightened on the trigger. “Why run? No need to run when dead men tell no tales.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “God, you could at least be a  _ little _ original.” He kept his eyes fixed on the killer as he said, “John, hurry up and shoot me before this man bores me to death. At least a bullet would be quicker.”

The redhead whipped his head around, looking for the person Sherlock was talking to. John pointed his gun at the man’s head, aiming between the eyes. “If you knew who he was, you should have figured I’d be here. Now drop the gun or I’ll shoot.”

The man smirked, and it was a nasty smirk, showing off a mouth full of nicotine stains and gold teeth. “Ah, the blogger. Read about you too. I’ll keep the gun if it’s all the same to you. Think I rather like my chances.”

He turned back to Sherlock, gun still leveled at his heart.

It all happened fast. By the time he figured out what Sherlock meant to do, it was already too late to stop him. He was weighing the merits of shooting the murderer versus the likelihood of Sherlock winding up with a bullet in him, when Sherlock launched himself at the man, tackling him to the ground.

The gun went off in the resulting scuffle, and John’s heart leapt into his throat.

Time slowed, and he raced forward and kicked the fallen firearm away. He reached into the tangle of thrashing, kicking, punching limbs, shoving Sherlock aside as he yanked the now unarmed assailant away from him and threw him to the ground. The man was bigger than John, but he was no fighter, not once he was without a gun.

“Are you hurt?” He asked Sherlock, panting as he twisted the man’s arms up behind his back.

“No,” Sherlock said. “The gun fired into the lawn. No one was hit.”

John gripped the man’s head harder than strictly necessary, grinding his face into the pavilion floor as he dug his knee into the man’s back. “You’re a lucky son of a bitch, you know that? You’re lucky you didn’t shoot him.”

He tossed his gun to Sherlock who kept it trained on the downed killer.

Sherlock pulled out his mobile with the other hand and dialed emergency services, speaking to the operator in crisp, plummy tones. “Police department, please. We’ve caught you a murderer.” He pulled the phone away from his ear and made a face as he spoke to John. “Fantastic, we’re attracting a crowd.”

John spared a brief glance. Sure enough, the accidental discharge had drawn conference-goers who were now standing around whispering and pointing. What little restraint they showed in not crowding forward seemed to be born only of fear that the three of them might be dangerous.

He couldn’t bring himself to care. Sherlock had almost been shot, but wasn’t. The relief of that overshadowed everything else.

“Yep, gunshots on a uni campus will do that,” John said.

“Do you follow him around everywhere then, like a dog on a leash?” The man beneath him sneered. “You clean up his messes, is that it? One day you won’t be around, and that smart mouth of his—”

Christ, some people didn’t know when to quit.

“I do follow him everywhere,” John said, bending down to hiss it in his ear. He rubbed the man’s mouth into the dirt once more for good measure, idly wondering if those gold teeth would scuff. “I always will, and it’s none of your goddamn business.”

* * *

Sherlock explained what had happened while they waited for the police. This man was apparently Phillip Bradson, a local mercenary who’d been hired to kill Father Strathmore by his wife.

“His  _ wife?” _ John asked incredulously as Sherlock rattled off the series of deductions that had led them here. “Why would she do that?”

“She was cheating on him, and with his closest friend, no less. There was no love lost between the two of them, but it seems she was willing to stay with him for the sake of keeping up appearances.”

It clicked in John’s head. “Until she found out about his gambling problem.”

Sherlock nodded. “He beggared them. It was the last straw.”

“So you’re telling me we flew to America just to figure out that someone’s wife wanted them dead?”

“Apparently,” Sherlock grimaced, looking even less pleased than John felt.

“But what about the other murders? All those priests found dead in their churches?”

Bradson jerked under him at that, in an attempt to wrench his head around to look John in the eye. “Hey! No. No, no, no. I didn’t murder any priests. You’re not pinning that on me.”

“Wasn’t talking to you,” John said, shoving Bradson’s head back down. He wasn’t feeling particularly charitable toward him. Not after he’d pulled a gun on Sherlock, and especially not now that he’d spent the last fifteen minutes hollering and calling them both every name he could think of.

Sherlock shook his head. “Unfortunately, he’s telling the truth. Mrs. Strathmore found him online. You’ll find that he has an impressively long rap sheet, but the slain clergy weren’t his doing.”

“So the other killings were—”

“Totally unconnected,” Sherlock confirmed, making a disgusted noise in the back of his throat. “What a waste of a trip.”

He could imagine how disappointed Sherlock must be, denied the opportunity to catch the perpetrator of a series of bizarre murders.

“We could stay?” He offered, even as he hoped Sherlock would turn him down. He didn’t particularly like Illinois, nor did he fancy another god-knew-how-long sharing such tight quarters with the detective.

“I’ve had quite enough of America.” He sniffed. “Besides, I have experiments to get back to.”

John breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe it was just as well. The Met might be willing to give Sherlock free rein of their crime scenes, but somehow John doubted small town cops in another country would be quite as willing. They were getting to be quite famous in London; here, not so much.

The police finally arrived.

An officer came over with cuffs, and John was only too happy to hand Bradson over. His bad leg twinged as he got up, and his back was stiff from holding down their suspect for so long. They took Bradson’s gun as evidence, which Sherlock assured them would be the murder weapon in quite a few unsolved cases. John pulled out his concealed carry license to explain his own gun, which he took back from Sherlock.

Sherlock lectured the police, telling them everything they’d need to know to put Bradson away for murder, down to the clothes he was wearing at the scene of the crime and where they’d find evidence in Mrs. Strathmore’s office. John stretched and watched from a distance, appreciating the looks of incredulous awe on the officers’ faces as they took the detective’s statement.

He felt Joanne’s presence at his side before she spoke. “Wow. He’s really something else, isn’t he?”

It startled a laugh out of John. “Oh, you don’t even know the half of it.”

He turned to look at her, and she was smiling. “Here, come with me,” she said. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

John glanced back at Sherlock. He was talking animatedly, and it didn’t look like he was likely to let up anytime soon. The crowd that had been drawn by the gunshot had thinned out—presumably people had gone back inside to take in the conference they’d paid for. Only a few stragglers remained, watching as a blonde cop led a handcuffed Bradson into a police car waiting at the far end of the field.

“She’s right over there,” Joanne said, nodding toward a small group of people by the lone water fixture. “It’ll only take a minute. Please.”

John relented. Sherlock probably wouldn’t get himself into any more trouble in the next ten minutes—although whether the cops made that more or less likely was up for debate. “Alright, lead on.”

“Great.”

Joanne smiled again, clear and untroubled, and John wondered what that felt like. So uncomplicated. So at ease in a place like this. Tackling dangerous criminals was really more his area. Now that bit was done, the discomfort of this place was seeping back into him slowly but surely. He rolled his shoulders back and followed dutifully, refusing to let it show.

He liked Joanne, she was certainly nice enough. But he was so glad this was their last day here.

Joanne led him over to a young woman who couldn’t have been much older than Kerry. She had a crooked nose set below kind eyes. She was wearing a simple button-down shirt, and her hair was pulled back unfussily.

"This is my friend John," Joanne said when they were close enough. "John, this is Sarah."

Sarah's eyes crinkled when she smiled.

"Hey, John," she said, sticking out a hand. Her accent was nondescript and American, and her grip was firm when John shook it.

“Hello,” John said. He nodded his head toward the crime scene. “Sorry about the commotion.”

She laughed. “Most interesting thing that’s happened all week.”

A look passed between her and Joanne. As if on cue, Joanne said, “You know what, I better go rescue Kerry. I left her alone with Jackson, and that man will talk your ear off if you let him. See you later!” She gave John a reassuring pat on the shoulder and took her leave.

With a start, John realized that Joanne reminded him quite a lot of Mrs. Hudson. He watched her retreating back for a few moments more, with that thought in mind, before turning back to the woman in front of him.

Joanne clearly left them alone on purpose, and John looked Sarah over warily, hoping to God he wasn’t being fixed up on a date or worse—about to be evangelized. He'd had just about enough strangeness for one week, and he wasn't ready for one thing more. He was beginning to regret agreeing to this.

"So, Joanne said we should meet?” John offered, wanting to get this over with so he could go collect Sherlock and head home. He must have looked as wary as he felt because she held up her hands in surrender.

"Whoa, this isn't going to be weird, I promise. Or at least, to the best of my ability it won't. I guess I shouldn't make those kinds of promises." She smiled, scratching the back of her neck absently. It was disarming, and she seemed—nice, really. "So I know it’s totally none of my business, but Joanne said you're going through some stuff. With your boyfriend?"

Oh. Oh god. It was one of  _ those _ conversations. The last thing on earth John wanted was to have a conversation about his sexuality—his sexuality that he was only just now starting to admit to  _ himself— _ with a stranger who wanted to save him from himself, who wanted to save him from the life full of tawdry gay sex she surely imagined, and okay, John hadn’t even  _ gotten _ to that part yet, and if the judgmental  _ bullshit _ of that didn’t just—

“Look, I don’t know what Joanne told you, but he’s not my boyfriend.” He took a deep breath, angry he’d allowed himself to be put in this situation, angry about the things that man had said during the seminar, angry about everything his father had ever said.

_ “But even if he was,” _ John continued, louder than strictly necessary. People were looking at them, but goddamn it, he was in another country, talking to someone he’d probably never meet again, and he’d had  _ enough. _ “Even if he was, he is the most brilliant, bright, roundly  _ good _ man I’ve ever met in my life, and yes, he is bloody gorgeous, and it is  _ nobody’s _ business what we do or don’t do together—not God’s and certainly not yours, so if you don’t mind—”

Sarah looked aghast, and her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh. Oh no, you think— John, no. Oh my god, I’m sorry. This must look awful. Joanne is my  _ wife. _ My wife, who I might have to kill. What did she tell you?”

John’s mouth dropped open. Her… wife.  _ Oh. _ This wasn’t what he’d thought at all.

“Not much of anything, truth be told. I just assumed— It’s just, the conference, and this one speaker, and I— I’ve made a total arse of myself, haven’t I?” John groaned.

“No! No, not at all,” Sarah assured. “God, what you must have thought.” She took a deep breath and stuck out her hand. “Let’s start over. Hi, I’m Sarah Rodgers.”

“John Watson,” he said, taking her hand and shaking it. “Sorry.” He couldn’t resist apologizing one more time.

She grinned. “No worries. That was a killer speech. Wish I’d said something half that good when people gave me and Joannie shit.”

The casual swear word seemed out of place nestled amidst the artificial, squeaky-clean sterility of the language he’d been around for the past week, and John found himself relaxing into it. He smiled back. “Not bad for a first try, I guess.” She seemed alright, and now he was curious. “So why did you want to talk to me?”

“That… maybe wasn’t the best idea. I heard your—” He saw her bite off the word boyfriend, and she nodded in Sherlock’s direction instead. “He kissed you, and you and bolted. Kerry and Joanne were worried about you, in light of, y’know.” She gestured around them, and John caught her meaning. In light of all this, this place. “I counsel queer Christians for a living, and Joanne thought I could help.”

“That’s—”

“Invasive?”

“Absolutely,” John laughed. “But also… actually kind of nice.” It actually was. John had considered himself queer for all of two seconds, but it was, well,  _ nice _ to say so to somebody. Somebody who wasn’t Sherlock, with all the baggage, uncertainties, and questions that came with their relationship.

Sarah looked relieved. “So, did you want to talk about it? Because I’m here for you. I think I’ve already botched this enough, and you just tackled a serial killer—”

“Ordinary killer,” John corrected.

“Ordinary killer,” Sarah repeated, shoving her hands in her pockets. “Hell of a job you have. Anyway, if you want to go, no hard feelings.”

John stayed. He leaned against the fountain with her, watching as the few remaining people wandered away. It really was a beautiful day. The grass almost shimmered in the bright afternoon sun, and the attendees’ colorful shirts dotted the landscape like abstract art from this distance.

He didn’t respond right away, letting his eyes skim the scene in front of him without focusing on anything in particular, letting his mind do the same. He let thoughts come and go without trying to make any particular sense of it. For her part, Sarah seemed content to let him. Now he noticed that she smelled of the same jasmine perfume as Joanne, and the thought brought a small smile to his face.

Finally, a single thought fought its way through the rest, floating to the surface like pond weed.

“Doesn’t it bother you, all the stuff they say about you?” He found himself asking. “I’ve been here all of a week, and it bothers  _ me.” _

He was no stranger to the sort of flak people gave folks who were openly gay—he’d seen his share of it in the military and in his own family, but he had to imagine it was so much worse here. He couldn’t imagine wanting to surround himself with this sort of company all the time.

“Of course it does,” Sarah said. She sounded so calm, at ease with herself in a way that struck John with a pang of envy. “But they’re wrong, so it doesn’t matter. And I have people who love and support me, just like you do.”

“Yeah, but—” He didn’t know how to say what was on his mind, so he settled for letting it all tumble out, unfiltered. “How do you know they’re wrong?”

He felt himself blush to the tips of his ears. The question sounded childish, even to him. “I mean, of course they’re wrong. It’s  _ fine, _ you know I told him that, when we met? I know it’s fine. Two women can love each other, or two men, and it shouldn’t be any different, but—” He turned his palms up in surrender, studied the lines that ran across them to avoid looking at this stranger’s face. “But the things they teach you when you’re a kid, they stick with you, don’t they? Some part of me still thinks— still worries— What if it’s wrong?”

He trailed off, come to the edge of how much honesty he could bear. Talking to this kind, patient woman who he’d never see again was easier in some ways. In others, it just made him more aware that this wasn’t the person he really needed to be honest with.

She was quiet for a while—waiting until she was sure he was done, maybe.

“There is nothing wrong with the way you’re made, John Watson. Gay, straight, or something in between. Your love can be as holy as anything, and nothing can keep you from the love of God. Not ordinary killers, not bad theology, and certainly not love.” She said it with conviction.

When had that lump formed in his throat?

“I’m not even religious,” John said honestly. “I don’t believe in this stuff.”

Sarah shrugged. “That’s okay too. But God is waiting for you if you decide you want him. He loves you just as you are. That’s what I believe.”

They chatted for a few more minutes, and then he thanked her and went to save the police from Sherlock—or Sherlock from the police, it was hard to tell who was tormenting who more thoroughly. He didn’t believe in this stuff, but that didn’t stop Sarah’s words from echoing in his head for the rest of the day.

_ Your love can be as holy as anything. _

Holy was something other people did in church on Sundays, certainly not something that applied to him or the things he did with Sherlock—definitely not something that applied to the things he  _ wanted _ to do to Sherlock. That much was obvious, no matter what one kind lesbian pastor said.

He wasn’t even sure  _ holy _ was a word he wanted applied to him, and yet his mind worried it like a dog with a bone, turning it over until it was pebble-smooth and gleaming.

He tried it on for size, tried thinking of the way he felt for Sherlock as holy, and was thrown by the effect it had on him. It shook him right down to his core, made him feel thrilled and sick and satisfied all at the same time. But mostly, it just left him reeling with an aching want.

Sherlock looked at him curiously when he returned from his chat with Sarah, but he didn’t ask, and John didn’t tell.

“There’s a flight heading back to London tonight. I can change our tickets and have us back home first thing tomorrow morning,” Sherlock said instead. He hesitated. “Unless you want to stay until the end of the conference?”

John shivered. Where the hell had Sherlock gotten that idea? “Oh, fuck no.”

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank god. Let’s go home.”

* * *

By the time it was half five, John had finished packing both his and Sherlock’s things, while the detective himself had yet to lift a finger. Sherlock was standing by the window, looking pensive as he gazed out over the lawn. His fingers twitched every so often as if they itched for his violin, and John saw him fingering the windowsill like a fingerboard with this left hand.

“I’m heading out for a tick. I’ll be back before it’s time to go,” John said. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t move, and John knew better than to expect a response. With any luck he’d at least  _ heard _ him.

He let himself out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. The hallways were deserted now. Probably everyone had headed off to watch the next speaker. The dinner break was almost over. It felt different here in the absolute silence, without the subtle sounds of life floating up from beneath doors or from the common areas.

John considered the last few days as he walked. Cliched though it was, he actually did feel… changed, somehow. Despite the veritable strangeness of the weekend, between faith healers and crazed killers, he was surprised to find he’d actually been glad to meet some of the people here. Which was why he was looking for them, to say goodbye.

Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for him to realize that he didn’t actually know where Kerry and Joanne were staying. Sherlock persisted in calling them 6A and 6B, likely to just annoy him, but it had gone on for so long that John just naturally assumed that was their room number. Of course it wasn’t. He walked through the halls hoping to catch sight of one or the other of them, but no such luck.

After five minutes, John was ready to turn back empty-handed, if disappointed. Despite the open friendliness of many of the people he’d met this weekend, he was still an Englishman and he still had his pride. He wasn’t about to knock on every door in the hopes of catching them. He rounded the corner to head back to his and Sherlock’s shared room when he nearly crashed into Joanne.

“Hey!” He said. “Just the person I was looking for.”

“Is that so?” Joanne asked. Her eyes crinkled when she smiled. “What a coincidence, I was looking for you too. Kerry’s saving our seats,” she offered without John having to ask.

“Nice of her,” John said, feeling unsure of what he wanted to say now that he was here.  _ Hey, tell your wife thanks for the pep talk? Nice of her to tell me God doesn’t hate me for being gay? _ “I just wanted to say, um—thanks. For everything, yeah?”

“Sarah helped?” She asked knowingly.

“Yeah, actually. More than I would have thought, had anyone asked my opinion on the matter. I guess you know by now, I don’t really go in for this stuff.” He spread his hands to indicate the dorm, and he meant  _ this conference _ and he meant  _ this religion. _

“I figured. Still, it was nice having you around.” She gave a little shrug that set the beads on her shawl jangling. They caught the yellow light in the hall and threw tiny reflections over the industrial white walls. “So you’re a detective instead of a journalist—not much different in the end.”

He was glad that she wasn’t sore about the deception, although he supposed it helped that they put away her pastor’s killer.

“I have a lot to think about it, I think,” John said.

“Mm,” Joanne agreed. “Glad to hear it. Take care of yourself, John. And take care of that man of yours too. He’s a strange one, but he’s lucky to have you.”

John smiled, feeling a flush of pleasure at Sherlock being called  _ his, _ even if he wasn’t sure it was strictly true. Either way, John found that not an inch of him wanted to deny it. “Will do.”

He stuck out his hand to shake, and Joanne raised an eyebrow at it and tutted before pulling him into a hug. In the second it took him to register what was happening, she’d already let go. “Look us up if you’re ever in Wheaton.”

John nodded. He watched as she headed down the hallway and disappeared through the double doors.

What a strange week this had been. He shook his head and went to find Sherlock.

Strange week indeed.

* * *

When he got back to their room, Sherlock had rejoined the living once more. He tossed John’s duffel at him as soon as he opened the door, knocking the wind clean out of him.

“Oy, you’re lucky I wasn’t holding a coffee.”

Sherlock flapped his hand impatiently. “If you’d been holding coffee, you’d have had to use the same hand to swipe the key card and open the door.” John looked at him blankly. “There’d have been a delay.”

“Oh. That’s… pretty amazing, actually.”

It was true. Sherlock in a mood was no less brilliant than ever, if a good deal harder to get on with.

“Where did you go?”

“I told you I was going out for a bit. You’re the genius, you tell me.” John teased.

Sherlock fixed him with a critical eye and stepped closer, entirely heedless of mortal concepts like  _ personal space. _ He put his face ungodly close to the juncture of John’s neck and shoulder, so close that John could feel the phantom touch of his nose and lips hovering just above—and  _ Christ, _ was he doing that on purpose?—and  _ sniffed. _

John bit his lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound.

“Ah. Jasmine, common note in mid-range perfumes. You went to say goodbye to 6A and 6B but only caught—” John was about to tell him their names for the hundredth time, when Sherlock caught the look on his face and rolled his eyes.  _ “Joanne,” _ he finished pointedly. “You wanted to thank her for setting her wife on you. Lesbian evangelical pastor, don’t see many of those around.”

He stepped back, moving a reasonable distance away from John, who felt a curious sense of loss at the lack of proximity.

“You knew about that?”

“Some of us pay attention,” Sherlock said, not a little smugly.

“I’m pretty sure she was a speaker here. Shame I didn’t meet her until we were tackling a killer. I’d have liked to sit in on her seminar.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Extremely unlikely, since she was fired from this university two years ago.”

“What?” John’s brow furrowed. “Fired? Why?” He asked, although the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach said he was pretty sure he already knew the reason.

Sherlock nodded, confirming his suspicions. “You know why. Officially, she resigned, but, well. Parents were angry. Investors called threatening to pull funding. I looked into her background while narrowing down possible suspects.”

“That’s awful. She never said.”

Sherlock gave a half shrug. “And why would she? I assume she was tasked with counseling you. There’d have been no reason for it to come up in your conversation.”

John opened his mouth to argue and closed it again. That was true. Even so, he was outraged for this woman he barely knew.

But there was something else bothering him.

“Why did she come back?” John asked. “After that, why would you? And Joanne too. I mean, if  _ you _ were fired—” He remembered who he was talking to and reconsidered his word choice. “Well, okay, if you had a job from which you  _ could _ be fired, and you were fired for some reason that wasn’t ‘putting pigs’ feet in the communal fridge’ or ‘making the receptionist cry every day for a month’—if you were fired for something you couldn’t control…” he trailed off. “I’d never set foot inside that place again. I’d move heaven and earth to see it ruined. I certainly wouldn’t be paying it any social calls.”

Sherlock met his eyes, bluest glacial blue and for just once, full of something that looked a hell of a lot like compassion.

“If they fired you for loving—for  _ loving _ someone, why would you ever go back?” John asked. The corners of his eyes prickled, and his throat burned. He swallowed thickly around it.

It was  _ unfair. _ It was all so desperately unfair, and it burned him. He would go back to London, back to Baker Street. Back to a whole entire, mad world made up of just him and Sherlock, with fingers in the microwave and walls that smelled of tea. They were a microcosm of two, and none of the rest of it could touch them.

But the people stuck  _ here? _ The lesbians who lived in Wheaton, or the gay men at Bethel, or else the bisexual kid in London with parents like Harry and John had—they just had to live with it. With a world that was sharp-edged and too short on kindness, praying to a God that hated them.

He hoped they found Sarah’s God instead.

_ Why would you ever go back? _ The question lingered in the air between them.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock said at last.


	7. Chapter 7

The trip back home was uneventful. Despite having very little to  _ do _ in the last week, tackling a mercenary excepted, John was exhausted. As it turned out, reopening the can of worms that was his childhood religion, with all its attendant scars, really took a lot out of a man. He didn’t think he’d fall asleep on the plane—he usually didn’t—but he slept through most of it and had the crick in his neck to show for it.

Stepping back into the sitting room at 221b was heaven itself, and John had never been more glad for the sights and smells of home. He glanced over at Sherlock who had wasted no time in making himself comfortable. He dropped his bag right inside the door, leaving John to pick it up and put it on a chair so there was walking room. John headed into the kitchen to flip the kettle on.

On second thought, that water had been sitting in there for the better part of the week, likely well on its way to becoming one of Sherlock’s science projects. He dumped it out and refilled it with fresh water before setting it to boiling once more. He got two teabags down from the cupboard and set them in clean mugs. It was late for tea, but he doubted he’d be able to sleep after that plane ride. While it hadn’t done much to banish his bone-deep weariness, he was that particularly unpleasant mix of wired and exhausted that didn’t bode well for the possibility of slumber, even if he had his own bed to look forward to again.

Sherlock was bent over some samples on the kitchen table, poking at something with the eraser end of a pencil. It might have been a piece of fruit at one point. Now it was so moldy John had no idea what it was, and he decided he’d prefer not to speculate. John set one of the mugs of tea beside his elbow when it was done.

He was still thinking about what he said, the way he shrugged Sherlock off in front of their new American friends.

Sherlock hadn't brought it up again, but neither had he made any affectionate overtures since. Everything seemed exactly as it had been before. Before Sherlock had climbed into John’s bed. Before John knew what devastating noises he made when he kissed him here or touched him there.

John had no doubt he could leave it alone, that everything could return to exactly the way it was. That was the gift Sherlock was giving him—or curse, who could tell?

But he found himself utterly unwilling to go back to the way things had been. For better or worse, he felt changed by their trip. And Sherlock might have deleted the incident from his mind—John’s cowardice, the fight they'd had—but John had no such superpowers.

He remembered, and he couldn't stop thinking about it.

He took a bracing sip of his own tea, and the bitter bite of the hot liquid steadied him.

“I really am sorry, you know. For before.”

Sherlock didn’t answer. He might not have been listening, but John knew him too well for that. He saw the way Sherlock went completely still, hand halting where it had been scrawling notes. He tossed the pen down and turned to face John, leaning back against the table with his head cocked.

“For denying me like Peter?” Sherlock asked.

The words could have been harsh, but they weren’t. There was a playful glint in Sherlock’s eye, and relief suffused John’s body.

“I think you just called yourself Jesus,” he said.

Sherlock shrugged, but the corners of his mouth tugged upward even as he feigned apathy. He licked his lips. “Have you come to worship, then?”

“God, yes.”

If returning to Baker Street felt good, then this kiss felt better. It was just another form of homecoming, and John wanted to lose himself in it, in the slide and press of lips and tongue, but first—

“Wait,” he said, pushing Sherlock away gently. “I don’t want to just brush it off, sweep it under the rug, forget about it. I need you to know I’m not ashamed of you.” He met Sherlock’s eyes, searching, and Sherlock let him look.

“I know,” Sherlock said. “If I thought you were, we wouldn’t be here. I’m not the most adept when it comes to emotions, but this weekend— I know it was about more than you and I. You had the ghosts of your past to contend with. You were searching for something.”

John hummed his disagreement. “I wasn’t, but it found me anyway.”

“Did it help?” Sherlock asked, sounding curious.

“I don’t know,” John said truthfully. “You were awfully quiet this weekend, you know. Don’t think I hadn’t noticed. You, who has an opinion on everything. Why no sarcastic remarks? Why didn’t you tell me how stupid you thought the whole thing was?”

“Would it have helped?”

“No,” John said. “It would have made it worse.”

“There you have it.”

John shook his head. Sherlock had the capacity to be more perceptive, more delicate than he usually let on. It just wasn’t often he cared enough to do so.

“So what do you think of it?” John asked. “The religion, all of it? I appreciate you letting me draw my own conclusions, letting me come round to this—” He gestured between them. “—on my own time, but I’m asking you now.”

There was nothing hesitant in Sherlock’s words. Not now that John had given him permission.

“I think a God who has made you feel shame all your life—who empowers others to do violence and hatred in his name—is not a God worthy of you. I think such a God, if he exists, has forfeit any right to your love or devotion.” Sherlock advanced on him, eyes blazing, putting John in mind of a predator. “Make me your god instead. Lay your devotion on me, and I will never let you down. I swear it.”

The words lit John up and burned him clean. It was blasphemy of the most beautiful kind.

“Yes,” he gasped. “I’ll worship no one but you.”

They peeled one another’s clothes off as if their skin was made of delicate, scratchable gold, and John fell to his knees. Sherlock’s hand was heavy against the top of his head, and it felt like a benediction.

John worshiped with his mouth, with lips curled round teeth and long, wet stokes of tongue. He took Sherlock in, licking and sucking, and it was strange and bright and wonderful. He worshiped at the temple of flesh and sinew, where saliva was their holy water.

Sherlock gasped above him. He moaned and sank his fingers into John’s hair, tugging and creating bright shocks of pain that blurred into pleasure. He shouted as he came in hot spurts across John’s tongue, who swallowed it down like communion wine.

John trembled through the aftershocks, and Sherlock laid him down on the carpet, shoving papers and stacks of books aside with a sweep of his hand. He got between John’s thighs and put his mouth on John’s cock that was already leaking and painfully hard, because turnabout was fair play in this religion.

John threw his head back, seeing stars, babbling incoherent words that were the new liturgy.

It was the first time John wanted church to go on and on.

_ Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy strength, and with all thy mind _

* * *

They were lying in bed after (because they’d finally made it to the bed), sated and blessedly alone, no gods or priests between them. No murderers or murder victims, no well-meaning new friends. Just the two of them, skin to sticky skin, breathing each other's air.

John ran his hand down Sherlock's naked side, just for the sheer joy of being able to do so. It didn't feel holy. Didn't feel wrong, either. It just felt like skin, the skin of this breathtaking man that he loved.

He nuzzled closer, and Sherlock lifted his arm to make room, waiting until John was snug against his chest before settling his arm around him.

They just breathed for a moment.

"Sherlock?" John asked at last.

"Mm?" John felt the rumble of Sherlock's diaphragm as he spoke.

"Joanne’s wife said something, when we talked. She said that this can be holy, and I felt… relieved. Seen.” He turned to look at Sherlock. “Why does that matter to me? You know me. You know I don't believe in that stuff.  _ I _ know I don’t believe in that stuff. So why do I still feel something when I think on it?"

Sherlock’s eyes were closed, and he was quiet for so long that had been anyone else, John would have assumed he was sleeping.

He opened those dizzying, glacial eyes to peer at John. "Do you want me to tell you how operant conditioning works? That people often carry echos of things they were taught as children, whether or not they truly believe? I wouldn’t be telling you anything you didn’t already know.” He kissed John’s forehead. “I think that receiving permission—receiving blessing, if you like—from a member of your childhood faith community mattered to the part of you that still craves your family's approval."

John's words came acid-bitter. "My family would never approve of me now."

"I know," Sherlock said gently.

"I'm still not ashamed of us," John said fiercely. "I've done without their approval for twenty-three years, and I certainly don't need it now."

"I know," Sherlock said.

John realized he was shaking, whether with anger or sorrow, he couldn't quite tell. It was as if his body had decided it was safe to come apart now, back within the walls of Baker Street. He didn’t like how raw all his emotions had been lately; he hoped it stopped soon.

For his part, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him tight until he was still once more.

John felt a fresh a surge of self-loathing. The first time they'd had sex, and it was gorgeous, and here was John falling apart in its aftermath. What Sherlock must think of him.

"Stop that," Sherlock admonished lightly. "Just enjoy it."

"Sorry," John said. He’d had enough of apologizing to last him another several months. There was another thing he hoped would stop soon.

"Don't be. I don't know what you think I expect, but I know you, John Watson. I don't expect you to be anything but what you are. I'm a cantankerous ex-junkie who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high, and you're an anger management case with remarkably steady aim and the heart of a lion. I don't expect you to be perfect. It's okay if you're sometimes unsure." His fingers ghosted along John's jawline, and John leaned into the touch. "It's okay if it all still hurts. Just be here with me now."

John cleared his throat that suddenly felt thick with unshed tears. He laughed, and even if it sounded a bit wet, it was definitely a laugh.

"Yeah, I think I can do that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for letting me tell you another story! It was a joy, as ever. 💙
> 
> You can check out my [original writing here](https://hopezane.com) if you're interested.
> 
> [Twitter](http://twitter.com/lovetincture) | [Tumblr](http://lovetincture.tumblr.com) | [Dreamwidth](http://lovetincture.dreamwidth.org)


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